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Title: Finch's Fortune
Author: de la Roche, Mazo (1879-1961)
Date of first publication: 1931
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Macmillan, 1931
Date first posted: 15 August 2013
Date last updated: 15 August 2013
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1102

This ebook was produced by: Stephen Brown
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net






                            FINCH'S FORTUNE


                                   BY

                            MAZO DE LA ROCHE


                        MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED

                      ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON

                                  1931




                               COPYRIGHT

                        PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
                  BY R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, EDINBURGH

                       MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
                  LONDON  BOMBAY  CALCUTTA  MADRAS
                               MELBOURNE

                         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                      NEW YORK  BOSTON  CHICAGO
                    DALLAS  ATLANTA  SAN FRANCISCO

                         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                           OF CANADA, LIMITED
                                TORONTO




                                  FOR

                            ELLERY SEDGWICK




                                CONTENTS

                                  I.
                             COMING OF AGE

                                  II.
                             THE TWO WIVES

                                 III.
                            THE TWO FRIENDS

                                  IV.
                             THE BIRTHDAY

                                  V.
                             THE DEPARTURE

                                  VI.
                              THE VOYAGE

                                 VII.
                                LONDON

                                 VIII.
                              NYMET CREWS

                                  IX.
                              A DEVON DAY

                                  1.
                                MORNING

                                  2.
                               AFTERNOON

                                  3.
                                EVENING

                                  X.
                           OLD LOVE AND NEW

                                  XI.
                       ARTHUR, SARAH, AND FINCH

                                 XII.
                              BY THE SEA

                                 XIII.
                              RALPH HART

                                 XIV.
                            EDEN AND FINCH

                                  XV.
                            AUNT AND NEPHEW

                                 XVI.
                                 JALNA

                                 XVII.
                               SEXTETTE

                                XVIII.
                             THE FOX-FARM

                                 XIX.
                             THE OUTSIDER

                                  XX.
                                BARNEY

                                 XXI.
                             WHOSE FAULT?

                                 XXII.
                                FREEDOM

                                XXIII.
                            THE YOUNG POET

                                 XXIV.
                     RETURN OF NICHOLAS AND ERNEST

                                 XXV.
                            ALAYNE AND LOVE

                                 XXVI.
                                 FINCH

                                XXVII.
                          CHRISTMAS--AND AFTER

                                XXVIII.
                               THE HUNT

                                 XXIX.
                             HIS OWN PLACE

                                 XXX.
                           WHAT OF PAULINE?

                                 XXXI.
                          BIRTHDAY GREETINGS




                            FINCH'S FORTUNE




                                   I


                             COMING OF AGE

Nicholas and Ernest Whiteoak were having tea together in Ernest's room.
He thought he felt one of his colds coming on and he feared to expose
himself to the draughts of passage and hall in such weather. He had had
tea brought up to him therefore, and had asked Nick to join him. They
sat before the open fire with the tea-table between them. Ernest's cat,
with paws curled under her breast and eyes narrowed against the blaze,
lay close to her master's feet, and Nicholas's Yorkshire terrier, flat
on his side, twitching in a dream. The brothers divided their attention
between their tea and their pets.

"He's a bit off colour," observed Nicholas, his eyes on Nip. "He hasn't
begged."

Ernest regarded the little dog critically. "He doesn't get enough
exercise. Why, he scarcely leaves your side. He's getting tubby. That's
the worst of terriers. They always get tubby. How old is he?"

"Seven. Just in his prime. I can't see that he's tubby." Nicholas spoke
testily. "It's the way he's lying. He may have a little wind on his
stomach."

"It's lack of exercise," persisted Ernest. "Now look at Sasha. She's
fourteen. She's as elegant as ever, but then she goes off by the hour,
even since this last snowfall. Only this morning she brought a mouse
from the stables. Tossed it up and played with it too." He dropped his
hand, and his white fingers rested for a moment on the cat's tawny head.

Nicholas responded without enthusiasm. "Yes. That's the cold-blooded
thing about cats. They'd slink off to catch mice or have a disgusting
love affair if their master were dying."

"Sasha doesn't have disgusting love affairs," answered his brother with
heat.

"What about that last kitten of hers?"

"There was nothing disgusting about that."

"There wasn't! She had it on your eiderdown."

Ernest felt himself getting angry and that was bad for his digestion.
The recalling of that morning when Sasha, with a cry of triumph, had
deposited her young on his bed (and he in it!) upset his nerves. He
forced himself to say coldly--

"I don't see what Sasha's kitten has to do with Nip's getting tubby."

Nicholas had broken his last bit of scone in his tea. Now he carried it
in his spoon to his mouth and almost immediately swallowed it. Why did
he do that, Ernest wondered. How often their ancient mother had
irritated them by this very habit! And now Nicholas was taking it unto
himself! He was looking self-conscious, too. His mouth, under his
drooping grey moustache, had a half-humorous, half-shamefaced twist.
Ernest had frequently observed this tendency in Nick to imitate their
mother since her death a year and a half ago, and it never failed to
irritate him. It had been one thing to see an old, old woman--over a
hundred, in fact, though you never would have thought it--eat sops. Quite
another to see a heavily built man, with at least a dozen of his own
teeth still in his head, commit the same breach of niceness. If only
Nicholas would imitate Mamma's fine qualities, of which there were so
many--but no, it was always what he himself had deplored in her lifetime
that he reproduced. And there was just enough resemblance--the shaggy
brows, the long Court nose--to give Ernest a queer sinking sensation.

He regarded his elder with austerity to hide what was almost pain.
"Don't you know," he said, "that that is very bad for you?"

Nicholas rumbled--"Must do it--teeth are getting wobbly."

"Nonsense." Ernest's tone was sharp. "I saw you eat quite tough venison
yesterday without any trouble."

"Bolted it."

"Only this morning I heard you crunching a piece of horehound."

"They do better on hard stuff. Something they can get a grip on." He
took a drink of tea, staring truculently over the cup into Ernest's
eyes. He knew what Ernest was driving at.

They were well past seventy and the shadow of their fierce old mother
still dominated them. Snowflakes flattened themselves against the
window-pane, clung there. Other snowflakes fell on these and clung. They
were shutting the world out, wreathing themselves like a white muffler
about the house. A quantity of drifted snow slid from the roof and was
deposited on the window-sill, with a soft thud. The shadow of the old
mother was shut in the room with them.

A live coal rolled from the fire, across the hearth and on to the rug.
Ernest kicked at it, then snatched up the tongs and captured it. The
little dog sprang out of the way in terror, then walked with an insulted
air to Ernest's bed and leaped stiffly to the counterpane. Sasha,
however, with only a sidelong glance at the coal, rose and stood with
her forepaws against Ernest's chair. She thrust her claws into the
velour and withdrew them with a tearing sound. Ernest replaced the tongs
and tickled the back of her neck.

"A lot she cares for you," said Nicholas. "She only tolerates you
because you're her slave. She'd just as lief I'd scratch her head."

Ernest murmured--"Sasha, Sasha," and felt familiarly for the most
sensitive nerves in her neck.

"You'll get fur on your fingers. Have this piece of plum cake?"

"She's not shedding her coat." He rubbed his fingertips together. "Not a
hair. No, no, have the plum cake yourself, I'm better without it." But
he glanced longingly at the cake.

While Nicholas had inherited some physical resemblance to their mother,
something of her rugged resolve and tenacity, Ernest had inherited only
her love of food, without the grand digestion that had accompanied it.
His digestion was weak, but his eyes lingered on the last piece of cake.

There had been five pieces of cake on the tea-tray, two small pieces of
Swiss roll, two small currant cakes, and one largish slice of the plum
cake. Why just one piece of that, Ernest wondered. It was a strange
thing for Wragge to have done. It was almost as if he had hoped to cast
a shadow, be it ever so slight, on their tea hour. There was something
very mischievous, even sinister, about Wragge.... One piece of plum cake
for two elderly men ... very strange indeed.

"I don't want it," Nicholas answered, wiping his moustache, and
returning his cup to the tray. "Bad for gout. You eat it. It's supposed
to be very nourishing."

"Rather odd"--Ernest tried to keep the strain out of his voice--"that he
should have brought only that one piece."

Nicholas glowered at the plum cake. "Ask him what he meant by it.
Anyhow, I don't want it."

"Will you eat half of it?"

"Yes, I'll take half. Perhaps Wragge thought half was enough for each of
us. We're not getting much exercise."

"In that case he should have cut it into two pieces. It might easily
have been cut into two."

Nicholas chuckled. "You're a funny old bird, Ernie."

Ernest smiled, not ill-pleased, and cut the cake in two portions. He
crumbled his bit into morsels, but Nicholas poked the greater part of
his into his mouth. Through it he mumbled:

"That cat's going to tear your chair to ribbons. Only listen to her
clawing it."

Ernest put an admonishing finger under her chin.

"Naughty, naughty," he said, and her eyes glowed up at him above her
three-cornered grin.

"Silly, flibbertigibbet creature," growled Nicholas.

Ernest could scarcely believe his ears. Had Nick really uttered the word
or had he dreamed that he heard it from Nick's lips? Were they both
dreaming? That word--their mother's, above all words--flibbertigibbet! Was
Nick getting _queer_? Or did he delight in hurting him by conjuring up
that loved presence (so recently swept away) by feeble imitations of her
habits and her words? And not her nicest habits or her prettiest words
either.... Well, it was in very bad taste, that was the least he could
say for it.

Nicholas was looking down his long nose while he scraped the sugar from
the bottom of his tea-cup that had all the pattern of gilt scrolls and
red roses inside and was just plain white outside. He tried to look
unselfconscious, but he did not quite succeed. There was an odd quirk to
his grey moustache. Ernest made up his mind to ignore the word, to go on
as though nothing had happened. He knew that was the best thing to do
with young children when they had picked up a stray oath, just to pay no
heed to the unseemly word and the child would, in all probability, soon
forget it. It would punish Nick, too, for he always liked what he did to
be noticed, commented upon. Instead of rebuking him, he would treat him
as a naughty child. With sudden misgiving he wondered whether Nicholas
might truly be getting childish--his second childhood--but he quickly put
that idea away from him. One glance into those deep, sardonic eyes was
enough to dispel it. No, Nick was sound enough except for his gout. The
thing to do was to ignore the word entirely. He said testily:

"I wish you would order Nip off my bed. He's right on my new eiderdown.
He may have fleas."

"He'll not have a puppy on it, at any rate."

Ernest raised his voice. "I don't like it. Please speak to him."

Nip's master rumbled--"Catch a spider, Nip!"

The terrier raised his head and peered sceptically through his fringe of
hair, but he did not budge.

"No use," said Nicholas.

"Try him with cats."

"Cats!" shouted Nicholas. "_Stable cats!_"

Nip endured Sasha, but stable cats he would not endure. Galvanised into
a hairy fury, he hurled himself from the bed to the window-seat. He
cocked his head, trying to see through the snow mounded against the
pane. He saw, or thought he saw, an inky form slink with lowered belly
across the white expanse of the yard. He raged against the window-glass.
Barks failed him. He made strangling sounds. He hurled himself from the
window-seat and raged against the door. He uttered ear-splitting
screams. Nicholas heaved himself out of his chair and limped hurriedly
across the room. Nip held his breath while the door was being opened,
then, as its edge approached him, he caught it in his teeth and bit it
savagely. He gnawed it, trying to worry it off its hinges, punishing it
for hindering him. Then, spitting a splinter from his mouth, he flew
along the passage and tumbled down the stairs.

The brothers heard the front door bang. Somebody had let him out. They
listened attentively, wondering whether it had been someone just passing
through the hall or someone coming in from outside. On these long
mid-winter afternoons, when it grew dark so early, the comings and
goings of the younger members of the family were of intense interest.

They heard strong steps mounting the stairs, then Nicholas, standing in
the doorway, regarded with approval the advancing figure. It was the
eldest of their five nephews--Renny Whiteoak--and he arrived in an
envelope of air so icy that Ernest, with a gesture of self-preservation,
put up his hand.

"Do you mind, Renny, not coming too close to me. One of my colds
threatening."

"Well, well, that's too bad." He crossed the room, leaving two
heel-prints of snow on the rug, and stood on the opposite side of the
fireplace. He looked down at his uncle with sympathy. "How do you think
you got it?"

"I didn't say I'd got it," Ernest spoke irritably. "I said it was
threatening."

"Oh! What you need then is a good dose of rum and hot water."

"That's what I tell him," agreed Nicholas, letting himself down into his
chair which creaked under him, "but he always fusses more about his
digestion than he does about his health."

"My digestion _is_ my health," retorted his brother. "But let us talk of
something else. It was you who let Nip out, was it?"

"Yes. You should have seen him tear through a snowdrift--after one of the
stable cats, screaming like a maniac too."

Nicholas smiled complacently. "Yes. And Ernest was just saying that he's
getting tubby."

Ernest asked: "Have you had your tea, Renny?"

He nodded. "In my office. There was a new foal coming and I didn't want
to leave."

"I remember. Cora was going to have one. How did she get along?"

"Splendidly. She has never done so well before. She's frightfully proud
of herself. When I went to her the last time she tried to tell me all
about it. She stopped nozzling the foal and rolled her eyes at me and
went--'ho-ho-ho-ho-ho,' like that." Renny gave a not unsuccessful
imitation of a loved mare's greeting to her master after a triumphant
delivery.

The uncles gazed up at him, across the thirty-five years that separated
them from him, with the tolerant amusement, the puzzled admiration, he
always inspired in them. He was so different from what they had been at
his age. They had been lovers of fine horseflesh, but not horsey. They
had been living in England at that time and had never missed the races;
Nicholas had kept a quite "dashing" pair of carriage-horses, had been a
bold hand with the reins, had kept a handsome Dalmatian to run beside
the glittering enamel of the carriage wheels, but to have spent a
winter's afternoon in a stable for the consolation of a mare in her
labour would have been abhorrent to them. They saw him wiry, in rough
tweeds, snow melting on his heavy boots, his knuckles looking chapped,
as he spread his hands to the fire, his red hair in a defiant crest
above his thin highly coloured face. They saw that face, wary,
passionate, kindled by the vitality within, as the flames played over
it, intensifying and sharpening it.

"Well, well," rumbled Nicholas, "that's good news."

"Are you sure you won't have some tea?" asked Ernest.

"No, thanks. Rags brought a plate of buttered toast and a pot of tea
strong enough to raise your hair, to my office."

Ernest thought of the office, in a corner of the stables, its yellow oak
desk, where were preserved the pedigrees of horses, overdue bills from
the veterinary, newspaper cuttings concerning horse-races and shows, and
carefully kept accounts of sales. He thought of the bright lithographs
of famous horses on the walls, the hard chairs, the bareness, the chill,
the unyielding discomfort. He shivered. Yet he knew that Renny had
consumed his clammy toast and bitter tea there with the satisfaction
with which a plumber might devour his lunch in a flooded kitchen. A
queer fellow, but a fine fellow too. Hot-tempered, wilful. "A perfect
Court," as his grandmother had used to say, who herself had been a
perfect Court. They had been a family who had glorified their faults
under blazing banners of tradition.

Renny sat down and lighted a cigarette. Nicholas took out his pipe. The
sound of a piano came hesitatingly from below. Renny turned his head, as
though to listen, then he said, with a note of embarrassment in his
voice:

"He's got a birthday coming. Young Finch, I mean." And he added, looking
straight into the fire--"He'll be twenty-one."

Nicholas pressed the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with his finger.
He made little sucking noises, though it was not yet lighted. Ernest
said eagerly:

"Yes, yes--by George, I'd forgotten! How the time goes! Of course, he'll
be twenty-one. Hmph ... yes.... It seems only the other day when he was
a little boy. Not so very long ago since he was born."

"Born with a caul," mumbled his brother. "Lucky young devil!"

"That's only a preventative against drowning," said Ernest nervously.

"Not a bit of it. It's luck all round. Good Lord, he's had luck, hasn't
he?"

Nicholas made no effort to keep the heaviness out of his voice, no
pretence of raising his head above the long wave of disappointment that,
ever since the reading of his mother's will, had submerged him at
intervals. He had no need to be reminded of the date of Finch's coming
of age. It stood out as the day of sunny fulfilment for the boy, through
the darkness of his own eclipse. "He'll be coming into his money, eh?"

Ernest thought--"It's up to me to be cheerful about this birthday. We
must not seem bitter or grudging. But Nick's so selfish. He acts just as
though he had been perfectly sure of the money when really Mamma was
more likely to leave it to me. Or even Renny. I was quite prepared to
hear that it would be Renny's."

He said--"There must certainly be some sort of celebration. A party--or
treat of some kind for Finch." He still thought of Finch as a schoolboy.

"I should say," said Nicholas, "that the hundred thousand itself is
treat enough."

Renny broke in, ignoring the last remark. "Yes. That's what I've been
thinking, Uncle Ernie. We ought to give him a dinner--just the family,
and one or two friends of his. You know--" he knotted his reddish brows
in the effort to express the subtle convictions of his mind----

"I know," interrupted Nicholas, "that Piers had no party when he came of
age."

"He was up North on a canoeing trip at the time."

"Nor Eden!"

"He'd just been suspended for six weeks from 'Varsity. Likely I'd give
him a party! There were great doings when Meggie and I were twenty-one."

"Meggie was the only daughter, and you were the eldest son and heir to
Jalna."

"Uncle Nick, do you seriously mean that you don't want any notice taken
of the boy's birthday?"

"N--no. But--why pretend to rejoice over his coming into what all three of
us had hopes of inheriting--more or less?"

"Then, I suppose, if I had got Gran's money, you'd have------"

"No, I shouldn't. I'd have been comparatively satisfied--if either you or
Ernest ..."

Ernest spoke, with a tremor of excitement in his voice. "Now, I'm quite
with Renny in this. I think we should do something really nice for
Finch. We were, all of us, pretty hard on him when we heard that he'd
got everything."

Renny jerked out--"I wasn't!"

Nicholas muttered--"I don't remember your congratulating him."

"I could scarcely do that with the rest of the family on its hind-legs
tearing its hair!"

After the impact of his voice--metallic when raised--there was a space of
silence through which came hesitatingly from below the sound of the
piano. The three were mentally reconstructing the hour when the family
on "hind-legs" had created a memorable scene with the poor piano player
as its centre.

Darkness had fallen outside. The invisible activities of the snow-storm
were still further transforming the landscape, obliterating, softening;
producing hive-shaped mounds where shrubs had been; pinnacles where had
been posts; decorating with ingenious grotesqueness every projection of
the house. So wasteful was the storm of its energy, its material, that,
after changing the aspect of a tree by the delicate depositing of flake
upon flake on each minute twig, or clinging cone, it would fling the
entire erection into glittering particles with one contemptuous blast,
then begin again to express the unhampered fantasy of its pattern.

Wragge, a white-faced, small-nosed cockney, with a jutting chin and
impudent mouth, came in carrying a lighted lamp. The lamplight fell on
the shiny sleeves and shoulders of the black coat he always wore after
his morning's work was done. "Rags," as he was called by Renny and his
brothers, half-affectionately, half in derision, had been brought to
Canada with Renny after the War, and had married, almost on the day of
arrival, another Londoner, a cook of no mean powers but with a taste for
spirits and heated controversy. The pair were so firmly established at
Jalna as cook and house-parlourman that the disapproval of the uncles
and the genuine dislike of Renny's wife had no power to undermine their
position. Wragge had been Renny's batman when he had been an officer in
the Buffs, and a bond, seldom made manifest except in furtive, almost
conspiratory glances between them, existed. Renny liked Mrs. Wragge's
cooking, he liked her red aggressive face and stout body presiding in
the brick-floored basement kitchen. He liked Wragge. And Wragge had the
cocksure attitude of the unscrupulous servant who knows that his
situation is secure.

He placed the lamp on the table and drew the curtains. He drew them as
though he were scarcely less than the Almighty drawing the curtains of
evening against the closing day. His nerves, sensitive to the moods of
the family, were conscious of a feeling of dissension. He enjoyed
dissension among the members of the family. Even when he felt it, rather
than heard it expressed in resonant tones, it was exhilarating to him.
Mrs. Wragge could always tell by the jauntiness of his descent into the
basement that there were "doings upstairs." She would raise her face
from peering into a saucepan and demand--"Well, and wot's up now?"

He lingered, arranging the folds of the curtains, hoping they would let
themselves go a little. He noted the sombre look of Nicholas, the
worried pucker on Ernest's brow, the half-grin that denoted temper in
the master of Jalna. But silence prevailed.

"Shall I mend the fire a bit, sir?" he asked, looking at Renny. He spoke
in a hushed tone, and the fact that the question he asked of Renny
concerned Ernest's own fire was intensely irritating to Ernest. He
answered sharply:

"No, don't touch it."

Rags continued to gaze, almost beseechingly, into Renny's face. "It's
getting very low, sir."

It was indeed. A chill was creeping across the room.

Renny said--"It wouldn't be a bad idea to put more coals on, but, of
course, if you don't want them, Uncle Ernest----"

Ernest answered only by looking down his nose and making the gentle line
of his mouth firmer. Wragge turned away and picked up the tea-tray. He
did not close the door behind him, but made way for two people who were
just coming into the room. These were Piers and his little son Maurice,
who rode on his shoulder. Mooey, as they called him, shouted, as he
reached the fireside group:

"I've got a norse to wide! I've got a nish 'orsie!"

"Good boy," said Nicholas, taking a little dangling foot in his hand.

Ernest remarked: "He does not speak as nicely as Wakefield did at his
age. Wakefield always spoke beautifully."

"Because he's always been such a conceited little devil," said Piers,
setting his small son on the arm of Nicholas's chair, from where he
scrambled on to his great-uncle's big relaxed body, repeating--"I've got
a norsie to wide!"

"Now, now," admonished Piers, "less noise." Piers, like Renny, showed
the vigour of an outdoor life, but his skin had the fresh fairness of a
boy's, and his full lips had a boyish curve, half-sweet, half-stubborn,
that could harden into a line of cruel contempt without changing the
expression of his bold blue eyes.

"I wish," said Ernest, "that you would shut the door, Piers. Between the
noise of the piano and the noise of the child, and the draught from the
stairway and the fire being almost out, I feel my cold getting worse."

Cornering him, Renny observed--"I thought you said the cold was only
threatening."

Ernest flushed slightly. "It _was_ only threatening. Now it's here." He
took out a large white silk handkerchief and blew his nose with an
aggressive toot.

The piano below broke into a tempestuous Hungarian dance.

"I'll shut the door," cried Mooey, and he scrambled down, ran across the
room and pushed the door so that it closed with a bang.

Ernest was fond of his nephew, he was fond of his little grand-nephew,
but he wished they had not chosen this particular evening for
congregating in his room. He thought rather resentfully of the number of
afternoons when he sat alone, unless he went down to the drawing-room.
When even Nicholas did not come to keep him company. Now, just when he
was feeling rather off colour, they were crowding in. If one came others
were always sure to follow. Then there was this troubling question of
Finch's birthday party. He did not see any sense in it. He, like
Nicholas, thought that a fortune of one hundred thousand dollars was
treat enough in itself. Considering, of course, the way the lad had come
by it. Mamma's leaving it to him had been such a surprise, such a shock,
that to make Finch's coming of age a moment for festivity seemed too
cruel. Yet, there was another way of looking at it. Might not the
excitement of a party help to drown the bitterness of the moment for
Finch's elders, as the clamour of a wake smothers the sorrow of the
bereaved? Might they not well join their hands and sing--"For he's a
jolly good fellow--," even while in their hearts they mourned--"Oh,
sorrow, sorrow the day"? He grasped the nettle, as was his wont when
driven to it, and, raising his eyes to Piers's face, said calmly:

"We've just been discussing some sort of celebration for Finch's coming
of age. What would you suggest?"

Renny, with concentrated gaze, began to poke the fire. Nicholas turned
his massive head and regarded his brother sardonically. So that was the
way old Ernest was going to save his face! Well, let them see what Piers
would say about it. Piers was a tough-fibred fellow, no damned sentiment
about him.

Piers stood stock-still, his hands pushed into his pockets, considering
the full import of the question. His mind moved slowly round it, as a
horse might move round a suspicious object suddenly placed in his
paddock. He knew by the way Renny beat the smouldering lump of coal in
the grate, by the hunch of Uncle Nicholas's shoulders, by the nervously
defiant expression of Ernest, that the discussion had not been one of
purely affectionate interest in the event. How could it be? He himself,
though he had never said so, had had keen hopes of inheriting Gran's
fortune. She had said to him time and again--"You're the only one of the
lot who looks like my Philip. You've got his eyes, and his mouth, and
his back, and his legs. I'd like to see you get on in the world!" God,
that had been something to go on, hadn't it? He had lain awake of nights
thinking how much he looked like his grandfather. He had stood below the
oil-painting of him, in the uniform of a British captain, that hung in
the dining-room, trying to look more like him. He had stood under the
portrait pursing his lips, denting his brow, at the same time making his
eyes more prominent, till his face felt rigid and he half expected the
old boy to wink at him as though they had a secret in common. But it had
not worked, it had not worked. Finch, with his lanky form, his hollow
cheeks, and the limp lock hanging on his forehead, had, somehow or
other, wormed his way into Gran's affections, had got the money. How he
had got it was a question now dead, and why dally with the corpse? The
living fact was Finch's birthday, Finch's fortune dropping like ripe
fruit on that birthday, into the midst of the family.

He said, in his voice that had a ring of heartiness which made the
labourers of the farm he rented from Renny put up with a good deal of
arrogance from him:

"I think it's a very good idea. As for the sort of thing, anything at
all will please Finch. Just the idea of goodwill, and all that----"

Renny was glad of this unexpected support from Uncle Ernest and Piers.
He would have given the dinner party in any case, but he preferred that
the guests should not be unwilling. (Even Nicholas gave a grunt that
might be taken for acquiescence.) He thought--"We're closer together than
anyone knows, far closer than anyone could know."

Piers swayed a little, hands in pockets, and went on--"We gave Finch
rather a nasty time after the will was read. We were pretty rough on
him. He went out and tried to drown himself, didn't he?"

"No need to drag that up," said Renny.

Ernest clenched his hand and examined the whiteness of his knuckles.
Nicholas pressed Mooey to him. Suddenly flames sprang from the fire,
filling the room with warm colour, turning Sasha, curled on the
hearth-rug, into a glowing golden ball.

"Well, there's just this need," returned Piers, "it reminds us that it's
up to us to make him feel that that sort of thing's all done with. Make
him feel that he's forgiven----"

Renny interrupted--"There isn't anything to forgive."

"Perhaps not. But you know what I mean. I know that all this year and a
half--or whatever the time is--he's felt like a sneak----"

"And wasn't he a sneak?" demanded Nicholas.

"Yes. Probably he was. But he's got the money. And he's as weak as
water. If his family don't stand by him, there'll be lots of other
people who'll make up to him. Mark my words, he'll go through Gran's
money in no time. And do no good to anyone--not even himself."

"A Daniel come to judgment," murmured Nicholas.

Piers smiled imperturbably. "You may be as sarcastic as you like, Uncle
Nick, but you know I'm talking sound sense. Finch is bound to be a dud
when it comes to handling money."

He broke off rather suddenly, halted by the expressions of the three
others who could see the door to which he had his back. The door had
been hesitatingly opened and Finch's long face had looked around it.

"Hello, Unca Finch!" cried Mooey. "I'm here!"

"Come in, come in, and shut the door!" said Ernest almost too heartily.

"We were just talking about you," said Piers cheerfully.

Finch stood with his hand on the door-knob, a sheepish grin making his
face less attractive than usual. "I--I guess I won't come in then."

"Shall I tell him what we were saying?" Piers asked of Renny.

Renny shook his head. "Time enough for that." He moved along the settee
to make room for Finch.

Finch dropped beside him, drew up one bony knee and clasped it in his
long shapely hands. "Well," he said, "it's been an awful day, hasn't it?
Lucky for me it's Saturday, so I haven't to go into 'Varsity. How is
your cold, Uncle Ernest?"

"Getting steadily worse." Again he tooted his nose into his silk
handkerchief.

"It has threatened, arrived, and grown steadily worse, all in the space
of an hour," said Nicholas, in a soft voice.

"I've got one too," said Finch, and he coughed without restraint.

"You shouldn't have been hanging about the stables this afternoon," said
Renny.

"I got fed up with the house. Been in all day. Swotting."

He was devoured by curiosity to know what they had been saying about
him. He was sure they often talked of him. He had an uneasy and morbid
sense of importance. He wished they would begin again. And yet he
shrank, definitely and quiveringly, from being the centre of discussion.
He was like a convert to Catholicism who dreads the confessional yet
yearns for it all too frequently.

Renny was conscious of Finch's unease. Through their bodies, in contact
on the settee, there passed a communion instinctive as the passage of a
bird by night. As though to give the boy confidence, his elder pressed
closer against him, then, lest that should seem like a caress, he turned
to charring.

"You should have seen this fellow's face!" he exclaimed. "He appeared in
the door of Cora's stall just as she was dropping her foal. He was
absolutely goggle-eyed. You'd have thought he'd been born only yesterday
himself, he looked so shocked."

"Look here," cried Finch hotly, "you know, I always keep away from those
things. I didn't know what was going on till I got there. I--it's just
that I don't care about seeing----"

"Of course, you don't," comforted Renny. "And you sha'n't! We'll not let
you be frightened again."

"Oh, hell, I wasn't frightened! It was only so beastly--coming on it all
so suddenly."

Piers observed--"You see, he had thought all along that colts were
brought into the world like babies. He believed that the vet brought
them in his Ford, with their manes all crimped and their tails tied up
with ribbon, and a little celluloid bit in their mouths in place of a
comforter!"

Finch joined, in spite of himself, in the burst of laughter at his
expense.

Mooey sat up and looked from one strongly marked laughing face to
another. He declared, solemnly--

"Oh, hell, I'm not f'ightened!"

His father stared at him. "What's that you said?"

"I said--" he put his hands across his eyes and peeped between his
fingers.

"Well, don't say it again!"

"He should not be sworn before," remarked Ernest.

"Whose boy are you?" asked Nicholas, bouncing him.

"_Yours!_" shouted Mooey, reaching for Sasha's tail.

"Ah, ah, ah," admonished Ernest. "If you hurt the kittey, out you go!"

Renny had been reflecting joyously on Cora's safe delivery, on her
marvellous intelligence. He said, raising his voice to drown out the
others:

"I wish you could have heard her trying to tell me all about it. It was
all over, and I'd been to the office for some tea I thought I'd look in
to see how she was getting on before I came to the house. The vet and
Wright were with her. Everything was nice and tidy. She'd got clean
straw and she was nozzling the foal. But the moment she heard my step
she lifted her head. She gave me a look. Well--you can talk about the
looks in women's eyes, but I've never seen a look like that in the eyes
of any woman I've ever known. They simply beamed. And she pricked her
ears and whinnied to me--'Ho-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho'--like that!" Softly and with
scrupulous understanding he imitated the maternal whinney.

Every eye was on him. A warm receptivity drew them close to him. The
hour became beautiful to him. He looked at Uncle Nicholas sucking at his
pipe, the deep lines of his face relaxed into tenderness as he cherished
the weight of Mooey's soft body, his years numbering only five less than
eighty. At Uncle Ernest smiling in the firelight, his fingertips against
the pulsing of Sasha's throat. At Piers, with his fresh ruddiness, still
standing, for he seemed, like one of his own horses, either to stand or
lie down. At Finch, nursing his thin knee, reflecting his own grin of
triumph. At Mooey in his blue jersey suit, his white bare legs, his
waving brown hair and blue eyes. Here they were collected, six males, in
the generous accord of kinship, of common interest. He said to Piers:

"Tell him, if you like."

"Tell him what?"

"About his birthday."

If a bomb had been thrown at Finch he might have been less staggered. To
be told about his birthday! That day which was advancing on him like a
juggernaut. That day when he would come into possession of that to which
he could never feel that he had the right. When he must, under the eyes
of his uncles and brothers, take, as it were, the food out of their
mouths. Though, in truth, none of them had seen the colour of old
Adeline's money for thirty years before she had died. All that time she
had been hoarding it and living on Renny--and Renny's father before him.

"My birthday," he stammered. "What about it?"

Piers had been watching Finch's face. He had read his thoughts there as
one might observe the shadows of frightened birds. He answered
tolerantly:

"Only that we're going to celebrate it. Give you a party of sorts. Isn't
that the idea, Renny?"

Renny nodded, and Ernest said--"Yes, we were talking about it before you
came in. We thought a nice little dinner--some of your own friends--and
Nicholas and I, if you don't think we're too old."

"Champagne," put in Nicholas heavily. "I propose to buy the champagne.
And drink some too, though it will play the devil with my gout."
Something in Finch's face had touched him. He gave him a smile that was
not grudging.

They were not pulling his leg. They were not trying to make a fool of
him. They were in dead earnest about the birthday party. His throat
contracted so that he could not speak for a moment. Then he got out:

"Why--I say--it's frightfully good of you! I'd like it, of course. But,
look here, if it's going to be much trouble or expense--please don't
bother! But I'd like it all right!"

But, even as he stammered the words, doubt assailed him. Could he really
stand the strain of a party on that birthday? Wouldn't it be better if
he were to sneak away so that the brazen glare of its sun might not beat
on him as the central object of its rising?

"Look here!" he cried. "I don't think you'd better do it! I really don't
think you'd better do it!"

"Why?" Four vigorous voices boomed the question at him.

"Because," he almost whispered, "I--I really think--I'd just like to spend
the day quietly."

He was not, at any rate, allowed to spend the next few minutes quietly.
Laughter engulfed him, closed over him, submerged him. And when, at
last, there was comparative silence again, he heard himself mumbling,
with scarlet face:

"Oh, well, if you really _want_ to give a birthday party for me, you can
do it! I don't give a darn."




                                   II


                             THE TWO WIVES

While the men of the family were gathered in the lamplight in Ernest's
room, the two women of the family and the youngest brother, Wakefield, a
boy of thirteen, were sitting in the twilight of the drawing-room below.
The windows of this room faced south-west, so that a reluctant daylight
still made the occupants visible to each other. Finch had been playing
the piano to them before he had been drawn upstairs by the magnet which
a group of the Whiteoaks in talk together invariably became to one of
their number outside the circle.

"I don't see why he should have gone," remarked Pheasant. "It was so
nice having him play to us in the twilight." She had drawn her chair as
close as possible to the window to catch the last light on the
diminutive jersey she was knitting for Mooey. She felt rather than saw
the way with the needles now, her cropped brown head drooping on her
slender neck above them.

"It's the same old thing," said Alayne quietly. "They can't keep away
from each other. It's that amazing fascination they have for each
other." Then, remembering that Wakefield was curled up in a wing chair
in a dim corner of the room, she added, with a constrained lightness in
her tone--"I've never known a family so attached."

Wakefield asked, in the clear, probing voice of the precocious child:

"Have you known many families, Alayne? You are an only child, and almost
all the friends you ever talk about are only children. I don't see how
you can know what other large families are like."

"Don't be so cheeky, Wake," said Pheasant.

"No, but truly," he persisted, raising his face, a small white disc, in
the shadow of the chair, "I don't see how Alayne knows really _anything_
about large family life."

"I know all that I need to know," returned Alayne, with a little
asperity.

"All you need to know for what, Alayne?"

"Why, for understanding this particular family. Its peculiarities and
its moods."

He was sitting cross-legged, his hands clasped before him, and he began
to rock gently on his buttocks, as boredom gave place to enjoyment. "But
I don't think, Alayne, that understanding a family's peculiarities is
all you need to understand when you've got to live with them like you've
got to live with us, Alayne, do you?"

"Wakefield, you should not say the name of a person you are talking to
so often!"

"You mean that I should not say your name because I talk to you so
often?"

"No, I mean that you should not say my name so often when you talk to
me!"

"Then, why don't you say what you mean, Alayne?"

"_Wakefield!_"

"Now you're saying my name every minute! In fact, you're saying nothing
else. Isn't that rather unreasonable?"

Pheasant was making suffocating sounds. Alayne controlled her desire to
quarrel with her small brother-in-law. She said:

"Well, perhaps it is. What is it that you think I should understand
since I must live with you all?"

Continuing to rock himself, he answered--"It's why we're so fond of each
other and why we can't keep away from each other. That's what you ought
to understand."

"Perhaps you'll be good enough to explain it to me."

He unclasped his hands and spread the fingers. "I couldn't possibly
explain. I feel it, but I can't explain it. Doesn't your woman's
_infruition_ tell you?"

Alayne forgave him his precocity, his impudence, for that exquisite
mistake. She laughed delightedly. But Pheasant, not far from childhood
herself, saw nothing amusing in the word. She said:

"I think it's a very good word. It sounds like a very good psychological
kind of expression."

"I am wondering," said Alayne, for she was rather tired of the little
boy's presence in the room, "why you don't go up to join the others. How
can you be happy away from them?"

"I'm not happy," he answered sadly. "I'm just killing time. I'd join the
other men like a shot, only that I'm not on speaking terms with any of
them."

"But why? What has happened?"

"Oh, just one thing and another. I hate talking about old quarrels and
bygone feuds. I feel myself getting friendly towards them even now. I
think I will go upstairs." But he lingered, for he loved the society of
women. In his own rather aloof way he loved his two sisters-in-law. He
respected Alayne, but it was his delight to draw her into a quarrel. He
patronised Pheasant, whom he called "my good girl" or even "my good
woman." His delicacy kept him indoors in rough weather such as this. So
he passed his time threading his way in and out of the various
relationships of the family, his sensitive nerves alive to all that went
on. He was happy, yet he was lonely. He was reaching the age when he
began to be afraid that he was not understood.

The twilight was turning to dusk, and Pheasant rose to light the squat
lamp that stood on the centre-table.

"Light the candles instead," pleaded Alayne. "Let us have something
different for this evening."

"Yes, do!" cried Wakefield. "It may cheer us up."

A shout of laughter came down to them from Uncle Ernest's room.

"Just think of the good time they're having," said Wakefield ruefully.

Alayne had risen too. She went to him and stroked his head. "Are you
sure you're not yet friendly enough to join in?" she asked.

"Not yet. Besides, I like the candle-light."

The candle-light, she thought, liked him. It played across the clear
pallor of his face and in the brown depths of his eyes as though in a
conscious caress. It had a mind to Pheasant too, as she sat down under
the branching silver arms, shining with a kind of tremulous serenity on
her thin young hands as they moved above the scarlet of the little
jersey.

Alayne began to walk restlessly about the room looking intently at
objects, the minutest details of which she already knew by heart,
picking up a small china figure and holding it in her two hands, as
though to absorb something of its cool smoothness. She saw her
reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece and furtively examined it,
wondering whether or not her looks had failed her in the past year.
Sometimes she thought they had. And, if they had, or were failing her,
small wonder, she thought. She had been through enough to fray the
velvet edge of any woman's bloom. Her first marriage--that disastrous
marriage with Eden. His infidelity. The torture of her thwarted love for
Renny. Her separation from Eden. Her return to New York and the
exactions of her work there. Her second visit to Jalna to nurse Eden
through his illness. His affair with Minny Ware. Their divorce. Her
marriage to Renny last spring. All this in four years and a half!

Small wonder if she had changed! Yet--had she changed? That was what she
was trying to make out in the glass. But one could never really tell in
candle-light. It was so flattering. Wakefield, for instance, who often
looked sallow in the daytime, had a white flower-petal skin in this
light, and there was the lovely pointed shadow of Pheasant's eyelashes
on her cheek.

She drew a step closer to the glass, pretending to be interested in
Pheasant's work, but her eyes returned to the scrutiny, almost sombre,
of her own reflection. She saw the glint of the candle-light on the
brightness of her hair, how it touched her cheek bones and the explicit
curves of her mouth. No, she was not going off in her looks, but she had
become quite definitely a woman. There was no girlishness in that face,
the contours of which had come to her from the Dutch ancestry of her
mother. She fancied that the salient expression of her face was one of
stolidity. It showed, too, endurance, but not patience. Intellectuality
subservient to passion. That capability for passion that might submerge
all else seemed to her to have been grafted on to her original
personality, her original conception of herself, at any rate, as a new
species of tree capable of bearing extravagant flowers and fruit, might
have been grafted on one of conventional species.

She had been married to Renny almost ten months, and she understood no
better than before she had married him what his conception of life and
love truly was. What did he think? Or was he guided only by instinct?
What did he really think of her, now that he had got her? He had no
taste for self-analysis. To dig into the depths of his desires, his
beliefs, and produce the ore of his egoism for her inspection, would
have been abhorrent to him. And apparently he had no curiosity about her
beyond the most primitive. His absorption in his own life was immense.
Did he expect her, she wondered, now that she was harnessed to his side,
to gallop through her life without question, sniffing the bright air,
grazing in the comfortable pasture, and returning at night to the dark
privacy of their mutual passion? He had none of her relentless desire to
see things clearly. His conception of their relationship was so simple
that it was almost repellent to her finical mind.

She turned hurriedly from the glass, for she saw Wakefield's eyes on
her. She began once more to pace up and down the room, her hands clasped
behind her back, as she had often seen her father pace in his study. She
smiled ironically, wondering if all these stirrings in her mind might
possibly be reduced to the old feminine questions--"Does he still love
me?" "Does he love me as much as ever?"

She heard him coming down the stairs noisily (as he always did) as
though there were not a moment to spare. He seemed to her like the
winter wind, sharp, full of cold energy, rushing by her. He must not
pass the door of the drawing-room, perhaps go out again, without
speaking to her! She went swiftly to the door, but, just as she reached
it, he opened it wide. He stood, startled and smiling to find her so
close to him.

"I was coming to find you," he said.

She returned, with childish reproach in her voice:

"I have been here all the afternoon. I heard you going upstairs ever so
long ago."

"Yes? I heard the piano as I passed, so I supposed Finch was playing to
you. You know I can't sit down and listen to music in the middle of the
afternoon." He put his arm around her. His eyebrows shot up as he saw
the lighted candelabrum. "Well, you are a ghostly-looking trio! What's
the matter with the lamp?"

Pheasant answered--"We like the candle-light. It's so mysterious."

His eyes rested appraisingly on the slender curve of her neck. "It's
becoming, at any rate. I didn't know you'd such a pretty little neck,
Pheasant."

"I was just thinking," said Wakefield, "that she looks like Anne Boleyn.
What a nice little neck for the headsman!" He uncurled himself and came
over to the two, pushing his dark hair from his forehead, smiling up at
Renny.

Pheasant dropped her knitting and clasped her neck with her fingers.
"Oh, don't, Wake! You make me shiver!"

That was just what he liked. "You may well shiver, my girl," he said.
"You're just the sort who would have lost her head in those days!"

Renny drew the boy to his side and kissed him. "How have you been
to-day, youngster?" he asked, with a solicitude that had once been
touching to Alayne, but of late had more often irritated. He felt
nothing of her irritation, but Wakefield did. He pressed against his
brother, putting his arms under his coat, and looked sideways at Alayne,
as though to say--"I can get nearer to him than you can." He
murmured--"Not very well, thanks, Renny."

Renny sighed. "Too bad." He bent and kissed him again. "Now, I'll tell
you something to cheer you. Cora has had a fine little foal this
afternoon, and they're both as well as possible." He turned to Alayne.
"You know, out of four foals she's lost two, and the others were
weakly--but this! Why, it's a regular rip!"

"How splendid," said Alayne, trying to feel excited. Her voice was
drowned in the enthusiasm of Pheasant and Wakefield.

Was it a filly? Was it like the dam or the sire? A filly. The very image
of Cora. Up on its legs. A very grenadier of a foal. They talked all at
once, their eyes shining. Mooey's jersey dropped to the floor.

Renny disengaged himself from Alayne and Wakefield and stood in the
middle of the room making quick gestures as he talked, his highly
coloured face alight. He repeated to them the story of Cora's sagacity,
of her greeting to him after her labour, imitated that whinney so
fraught with meaning.

Alayne watched him, scarcely hearing what he said, preoccupied by her
love for him, by the fascination his presence had for her. She waited
impatiently for him to finish his recital, eager to draw him away
upstairs, where she might have him to herself, away from these others
who seemed always coming between them. She held a pinch of his tweed
coat in her fingers and, when the opportunity came, she drew him towards
the door. "Come upstairs," she said, "I have something in my room I want
to show you."

"Can't we see it later?" he asked. "Won't it be cold up there for you?"

"That doesn't matter."

"I'll come, too!" Wakefield clasped Renny's arm.

"No," said Alayne sharply. "It's much too cold for you up there."

But he walked doggedly behind them into the hall and followed them up
the stairs. Renny hesitated at the door of his room. "Is it in here you
want me to go?" He spoke like an obedient but slightly unwilling child.

"No; in my room."

She stood with her hand on the door-knob letting him go past her into
the room, but, as Wakefield attempted to pass, she gave him a look so
forbidding that he drew back and leaned across the banister pretending
to gaze at something in the hall below to hide his chagrin.

She closed the door behind her and looked at Renny with a sudden feeling
of wry amusement. She was like a gaoler, she thought.

This room had been his sister's before her marriage. It now bore little
evidence of the padded, curtained, frilled comfort that had been Meg's
delight. It was almost austere, the cretonne of mauve and cream, the few
pictures in a small group together. In the summer, when she had
furnished it with furniture that had been her mother's and stood a
single porcelain vase on the mantelpiece with a spray of delphinium in
it, the effect had been charming. The window had been open and the
drawn-back curtains had discovered the warm beauty of the garden. But
now, in the chill of winter, with the February snow furring the pane,
the room looked aloof and colourless, even to her. To Renny, it struck a
chill to the heart. She realised that she should not have brought him
here, at this hour, in this temperature.

"Well," he asked, looking restively about, "what is it you want to show
me?"

"This." She indicated an embroidered mauve bedspread she had been making
and had that afternoon laid in its graceful simplicity on the bed.

He frowned, looking at it. "It looks like a stage bed. The whole room
has a stagey effect to me. It's unreal. It's not comfortable. There's
nothing inviting about it. Of course, I know it's in frightfully good
taste and all that, but--" he gave the grin that was so like his
grandmother's--"it's lucky I usually come in here in the dark or I might
get depressed!"

Her eyes met his with a commanding look, saying--"Go no farther," but her
lower lip quivered, saying--"Go as far as you like."

He sat down on the side of the bed and drew her on to his knee. He hid
his face against her neck. She would have relaxed in his arms, but she
remembered the new embroidered bedspread and sprang up. She took him by
the lapels of his coat and gave him a little tug.

"You must not sit there!" she exclaimed. "You are crushing it
dreadfully."

He got to his feet and looked on ruefully while she stroked the heavy
silk. He always admired the grace of her wrists when she performed any
quick and capable act with her hands. She had good hands on the rein
too. That was one of the things that had attracted him to her.

She straightened herself and looked at him with a half-tender,
half-reproving wrinkling of the nose. "Darling, I'm sorry! But I really
_can't_ let you sit there.... And, don't you think you had better change
your things? You smell ... quite, quite a little of the stable."

He gave a noisy sniff at himself. "Do I? But I always do. It's a part of
me. Do you mind so much?"

"This time there's a smell of disinfectant mixed with it."

"I scrubbed my hands in the office."

"Oh, my dear! Why will you do that? Icy water and a coarse towel! No
wonder your hands look scraped!" She took one in hers and examined it.
"And such shapely hands, too!"

"Well," he spoke with resignation, "if I must, I must! Come along with
me while I do it."

As they went toward his room she remembered their first day at home
after the return from their honeymoon. They had gone over the house,
linked together, seeing it in the new light of their union. Each room
they had entered had thrust forward its crowd of old memories to greet
them. "Here we are!" memories had cried in the drawing-room; and there
was Grandmother at her game of backgammon, her purple velvet tea-gown
rich in the firelight, her rings flashing on her strong old hands. There
were family gatherings, family bickerings, and last, Grandmother, nobly
extended in her coffin, with Uncle Ernest weeping at her feet. "Here we
are!" memories had cried in the sitting-room; and there was Eden, pale
and subdued, lying on the sofa, as he had looked when they had brought
him home ill from New York. And again, there was the scene of the
reading of the will, one not to be dwelt on. She had not been present at
that scene, but she had heard about it and she knew it would be long
before the room would surrender the memory of it. Memories had
shouted--"Here we are"--in the dining-room. Never, never could she change
the dining-room. She felt as impotent before it, its massive furniture,
its heavy curtains, its family portraits, as a querulous mouse might
feel nibbling at the base of a colossal cheese. There, was and always
would be, the stronghold of the Whiteoak tradition. There, was and
always would be, the shade of old Adeline vexed by any delay of the
dinner, most forward of all in the sending back of her plate for
renewals of food, her fiery brown eyes under their rust-red brows
gleaming with satisfaction. There, were the unconquerable memories of
heavy meals, eaten with all the more gusto because of dissension. And in
old Adeline's bedroom across the hall, where her parrot Boney still
perched on the head-board of her painted bed, feeding on his memories of
her, Renny had said, hesitatingly--"I have sometimes thought I should
like to sleep here. She left me the bed in her will, you know. God, what
extraordinary dreams one might have!"

Upstairs, from every bedroom, memories had crowded out to them. They had
begun their new life hampered by far too many memories. They had passed
the room that had been hers and Eden's, with averted eyes, and had gone
with relief to the open door of Renny's room. Looking about she had
wondered how she would ever make herself at home in it, what could be
done to ameliorate the uncompromising masculinity of it. Luckily it was
large and airy. Two new walnut beds with straight lines there must be to
take the place of the ugly light oak bed that sagged in the middle from
his weight. Those hideous curtains that must surely have been his
sister's choice, and that he usually kept tied in knots that they might
not obscure the air and light, must give place to soft-toned
casement-cloth, of mauve perhaps--no, not of mauve. Mauve would fade from
the very atmosphere there before the sun had touched it. Mulberry would
be better, or green.... And the wallpaper.... And the pictures on the
wallpaper....

He had broken in on her thoughts by saying in a somewhat constrained
voice:

"I wonder if you would mind very much taking Meggie's room for yourself.
It's next door, and it would leave me free to look after Wake. He has
always slept with me, you know."

She had been startled, even angered by the request. Yet withal a subtle
sense of relief had entered into her feelings after the first moment.
The idea of a retreat of her own, a harbour for her tastes and her
reserves, had not been unpleasant. But to give up the shelter, the
provocation of his presence ... even more, to think that he was
suggesting, almost laconically suggesting, the giving up of her presence
in his room. After what they had been to each other for three months!
After all he had confessed to her of his fevered longings for her when
she had been in that house as Eden's wife! Had his longings developed
into no desire for sweet companionship?

"Well?" he had asked, with a sidelong look at her.

Something stubborn in her made her say:

"I think Wakefield would be much better sleeping alone. You must often
disturb him coming in late. And your habit of smoking while you
undress."

"I don't disturb him nearly as often as he disturbs me."

"All children--especially delicate ones--are better sleeping alone."

"Not Wake. Not with his nerves and heart!"

"It's quite all right, Renny, but--why do you only tell me now?" She had
felt both irritation and mortification, unhappy feelings that he always
had had, and always would have, the power to rouse in her, by a tone in
his voice, by his silence.

"I didn't want to." He had spoken like a wayward child, and yet with a
taciturnity that put him out of her reach.

That was all over now, but the recollection of it often returned to her,
for it had seemed to show her quite definitely that her coming could
change nothing of Jalna, that Renny had taken possession of her life,
but that she could never do more than enter into his as a fresh stream
into the salt sea.

Now, as they went together to his room, they passed Wakefield, still
leaning against the banister in an attitude of dejection. He kept his
eyes averted from them, and Renny did not glance at him. Alayne was
conscious of the child's jealousy of her and she suspected that Renny
also was conscious of it. She had a feeling that Wakefield grudged her
the freedom of Renny's room, that he would have liked to give her such a
forbidding look as she had given him, even reduce her to the condition
of lolling disconsolately against the banister.

She closed the door with decision. Renny sat down and began to unlace
his boots, the metal tips of the laces making small hurried sounds and,
at last, the heavy soles two distinct thuds on the floor. She liked to
watch him doing things, however commonplace. He was a delight to her and
she wanted him all for her own, in tenderness, and in completeness. She
said:

"Why can't we see more of each other, alone? I was for two hours this
afternoon in the drawing-room! I hoped you would come."

Eagerly he began to explain, but she stopped him. "Oh, I know about the
colt. It was beautiful having it come along so well. But there were
others there. Surely you didn't have to stay with her all the time."

He looked about, with a troubled expression, for his shoes, as though,
once in them, he would be impervious to her onslaught. She continued,
love and peevishness making her voice tremble:

"You may not believe it, but I'm lonely sometimes. When I think of our
honeymoon in England--travelling about--the voyage home--it all seems so
lovely! And now you're so absorbed by things!" She sat down on the side
of the bed with a disconsolate look. "And it isn't as though you were
like many American husbands, absorbed by big enterprises that demand
concentration----"

She was stopped by the outraged expression of his face. Egotism, hurt
pride flamed there. She had thought his lean face could be no more red,
but it was more red. And, deep in his eyes, was a look of sorrow.

"But--but--" he expostulated, "can't you understand?"

"No, I can't," she answered relentlessly. "Why, I really believe that if
I were going to have a baby you wouldn't make a bit more fuss!"

"You're jealous!" he exclaimed. "Jealous of a mare! I never heard of
such a thing."

Her womanhood was submerged by a desire to be petted. She said, with the
whining intonation of a five-year-old--"I don't care. It's perfectly
true! If I were having a baby this minute you couldn't do anything more
for me than you did for her!"

"Yes, I could! I'd take to the woods, blizzard and all, and never come
out again until it was all over!"

He came to her and sat down beside her on the bed.

"Do you know," he said, drawing her against him, "that for a sensible
woman, an intellectual, almost high-brow woman, you can be sillier than
any woman I've ever known."

She knew that what he said was true. She knew that he was both surprised
and amused by her silliness, but she had worked herself up into this
state and she did not care. She pressed closer to him pushing her
shoulder under his arm. The room was grey and cold. He disengaged one
hand and extracted a cigarette from his case. He lighted it, throwing
the match on the floor. The smoke curled about their heads, fragrant in
their nostrils. They held each other close, rocking together gently in
the twilight. He said:

"Isn't it nice that there's one floor we can throw matches on, and one
bedspread we can rumple?"

                  *       *       *       *       *

Downstairs in the drawing-room Pheasant waited for Piers to bring young
Maurice to her. It was time the child was put to bed, but she was in no
hurry to leave the pleasant warmth of the fire. She sat very upright on
a beaded ottoman before it, thinking of Alayne and Renny. Were they
happy? Was their marriage going to be a success? Speculation on the
relations between men and women was the frequent subject of her
thoughts. She had known too much of the suspense, the cruelty of these
relations in her short life. There had been no mother to throw a
protective shadow between her and her father. The two had been alone
together--he unhappy, thwarted, his affection for her, when it was not
negligible, half a sneer. Hers, for him, half-deprecating, half-defiant.
He had let her run wild ... and she had run wild--straight into her
marriage with Piers. They too had had their own troubles. And when she
had time to spare from their affairs, she had watched the complications
hinging on the diverse personalities about her. She felt herself old in
the wisdom of life. She felt maternal towards Alayne, who was ten years
her senior, even though Alayne had been married and divorced, and was
married again. And to Whiteoaks each time! Ah, there lay the trouble!
The Whiteoaks! Alayne never would--never could understand them. She was
an alien, not so much in country as in soul. Pheasant had been brought
up next door to the family at Jalna. She had been familiar with Renny
since she could toddle. She wondered sagaciously if she might not come
to the point one day of giving some good advice to Alayne. She laid her
knitting in her lap, and her eyes became large as she pictured herself
giving it. But still she could not imagine what the advice would be.

Piers and Mooey were descending the stairs, not with a rush as Renny had
done, but slowly and carefully, to suit the legs of the little boy. All
the way down Mooey was talking, reiterating the fact that he was not
afraid, that he was not going to fall.

"Don't keep repeating that," Pheasant heard Piers say. "It's babyish."

"I'm not a baby," said Mooey stoutly; and after a moment of deep
thought, he added--"Oh, hell, I'm not f'ightened!"

"What's that I hear my baby saying?" said Pheasant.

"He has nothing," said Piers, in the doorway, "between babbling like a
babe in arms and cursing like a trooper."

"Oh, he hears too much, the poor darling!" and Pheasant held out her
arms to him.

He flew into them, burying his face in her lap. The firelight brought
out a ruddy tinge in his brown hair.

"Look!" exclaimed Pheasant, touching it. "I believe he's going to have a
tinge of the Court red in his hair."

"I hope not. One of them in the family is quite enough. What's that
you're knitting?"

"A new jersey for baby. See, doesn't the colour become him?" She held it
under his bright face.

"Where are the others?" asked Piers, sitting down, facing her across the
fire.

"Renny and Alayne went upstairs. Wake went tagging after them. Really,
Piers, I think she gets awfully fed up sometimes--never having him to
herself."

"Does she? What does she want him to herself for?"

"Well, after all, they're practically newly married. And days go by when
she scarcely sees him alone unless she tramps through the snow to the
stable and corners him there. And she told me herself that when she does
he's quite likely to ignore her and to stand gazing at some old horse as
though he'd never seen it before. For my part, I have great sympathy
with her."

Piers listened to all this with a broadening grin. He threw himself back
in his chair, thrust his hands deep in his pockets, and said:

"Now what do you suppose the latest is? A birthday party for young
Finch! With the family, ancients and babes, dancing around a birthday
cake, with a cheque for a hundred thousand tucked away in the middle of
it!"




                                  III


                            THE TWO FRIENDS

Finch felt that he must see George Fennel that night. He had not seen
him for more than a fortnight, and ever so often the desire to open his
bosom to this particular friend came upon him. It was not that George
was sensitively receptive or understanding. In truth he often stared, at
Finch from under his tumbled dark hair with an expression in which
humorous contempt mingled with bewilderment at Finch's rhapsodies or
despairs.

There was nothing rhapsodical or despairing about George Fennel. Like
Finch, he loved music better than anything else, but his pleasure in it
was calm. If a piano were not at hand he would play on a banjo. If the
banjo were out of order his brother's mandolin would do. If all else
failed, well, there was the mouth-organ in his pocket! From these
diverse instruments he drew much the same sensation--one of quiet
comfort, of cheerful oblivion against the world. Finch's ecstasies, like
Finch's despairs, were inexplicable to him; but he was fond of Finch,
and he had a suspicion that this hungry-eyed friend possessed some
strange inner quality that might either bring him fame or "land him in
the soup."

What Finch found in George was the never failing comfort of a friend who
is always the same. George always met him with the same degree of
warmth. Discussed by the hour, with stolid cheerfulness, the things that
interested him. The only subject that caused George's serenity to flame
into excitement was the subject of spending money like water. Then his
eyes would beam and his quick sentences explode in reckless gaiety at
the very thought of such felicity. All their lives the pockets of the
two youths had been almost empty. It was George's invincible idleness
that made the thought of a superfluity of money so captivating. Money
without working for it. That was what Finch was going to have, and its
advancing brightness already was touching Finch's lanky figure.

That figure, as George opened the rectory door, stood silhouetted
against the moonlit snow with an air almost mysterious, the face in
darkness, for the dim light in the hall marked no features but his eyes.

"Oh, hello Finch!" said George, in a laconic welcome.

"Hello, Jarge!" boomed Finch, feeling suddenly hilarious. He entered,
stamping the snow from his boots and flinging his cap and coat on the
rack. "What's your latest crime?"

"Murdering Mozart," said George. "I've been playing him on the
mandolin." He banged the door and kicked the snow that Finch had brought
in off the rug into the corner. "Awfully cold, isn't it?"

Finch struck his hands together trying to bring feeling into them.
"Cold, yes, but glorious coming across the fields! You'd think it was
the first snow that had ever fallen, it's so white. And the shadows!
Every smallest twig--as though it were done in blue-black ink. And my own
shadow--I wish you could have seen it! It simply leaped and danced along
beside me like a wild thing!"

"Now I wonder what made it do that," said George, looking at him
round-eyed.

"Don't be so beastly prosaic, Jarge! If you had been there you'd have
danced too."

"I don't see myself out on a night like this unless there is a girl or a
party at the other end. I wish it hadn't stopped snowing though, because
if it had kept on all night at the rate it was falling I shouldn't have
been able to get into business on Monday."

Although George was a year younger than Finch, his course at the
University had already come to an end and he had gone into a broker's
office. He had chosen the career of broker's clerk because it seemed to
him an easy life and one in which money was talked about largely even
though not seen. He led the way upstairs to his own small room. It was
as uncomfortable as a room could well be, its only warmth rising through
an uncovered stove-pipe hole from the kitchen below, but a kind of soft
glow that emanated from George's compact person and the memory of
hilarious times they had had there gave it a peculiar charm for Finch.
He sank down on the sagging sofa and took out a pipe. George had never
seen him smoke anything but a cigarette, and he looked on with
astonishment while Finch filled it from an old pouch that had once
belonged to Nicholas. Finch was a little embarrassed. He had had the
pipe with him on his last visit to the Rectory, but had lacked the
courage to produce it. He fancied that he looked more of a man when it
hung from the corner of his mouth, though he could never hope to look so
thoroughly at ease with it as Piers with his.

"What's the idea?" asked George, lighting a cigarette. "Trying to look
like a Famous Author, an American Ambassador or a British Prime
Minister?"

From a cloud of smoke Finch answered--"I don't know what you are driving
at. I've been smoking a pipe for some time--off and on. It's less trouble
and more economical."

George chuckled. "You're choosing an original time for economy. Just
when you're twenty-one and more money in the offing than you'll know how
to spend."

"Well, I suppose it's simply that I've come to the age for smoking a
pipe," said Finch, with dignity. "Besides, it's good for me. You know,
my nerves are pretty rocky. You've no idea how odd I feel sometimes.
Absolutely up in the air for next to nothing."

"I'd feel odd, too, if I was about to fall heir to a fortune."

"I wish," observed Finch, rather nettled, "that you wouldn't talk as
though I were a millionaire. What is a hundred thousand dollars!"

"I've no idea. I can't imagine such a sum."

"You say that, and you a broker!"

George, a junior clerk in a broker's office, liked the appellation. He
became serious. "Oh, well, one's business is so impersonal."

"Yes, but look here. A hundred thousand isn't so very much in these
days. My two uncles each went through that much and have scarcely a
penny left."

"And yet they grudge you your chance!"

Finch flushed deeply.

"Sorry," said George. "But I couldn't help hearing things. They didn't
take many pains to hide their feelings about it."

"I don't blame them!" cried Finch, twisting his long fingers together.
"I don't blame them a bit ... for anything they said."

"Perhaps, but it makes it hard for you."

"Oh, yes, awfully hard." He had to compress his sensitive upper lip on
the pipe to keep it from quivering. He was lost in unhappy thoughts for
a moment, then his eyes sought George's with a look of almost triumph in
them. "But they are quite different about it now. They're awfully decent
to me. I went into my Uncle Ernest's room this afternoon. He and Uncle
Nick and Renny and Piers were there. I could see when I went in that
they had been talking about me. I felt uncomfortable for a bit. Then I
found out that what they'd been talking about was a _dinner_ for me--on
my _birthday_." No amount of compression would keep the lip still now.
He clenched his teeth on the stem of the pipe.

George was impressed. "A dinner, eh? That's very decent of them. I
wonder who thought of it first."

"I don't know, but it was Piers who first spoke of it. It's to be just a
small dinner party; but we scarcely ever have people in, you know, and I
think on the whole it will be less of a strain for us if we've a few
guests to look after. Don't you agree?"

George reflected, trying to put himself in the place of these
high-spirited, skittish Whiteoaks. The dinner party then was to be a
bridge between the day before Finch's birthday and the day after. Across
this bridge the family might march in gala procession. He said--"I like
the idea. It should certainly help you out."

"I wish it were all over," said Finch, with almost a groan. "There's
another thing I'm dreading. That is telling Renny that I'm not going
back to 'Varsity. I simply can't do it."

George regarded him without surprise. "I think you're very sensible. I
had to give it up. Too much of a strain. I suppose you'll go in for
music?"

"Lord, I don't know! That is, if you mean my making a career of it; I
don't believe I have it in me."

"What rot! You've got more talent than any chap I know. Everyone who
hears you play thinks you're wasting your time doing anything else."

"I know I am. Yet I don't believe I'll ever be good at concert work.
When I played at that recital last month I played my very worst. My
teacher was awfully disappointed. He'd slaved over me. He expected
something really good from me. And I'd practised like hell. But--you know
how it was--I nearly broke down twice."

"You'll get over all that nervousness," said George comfortingly.

"No, I sha'n't. If I had felt nervous I'd be more hopeful about myself.
But I didn't. I just felt half-dead. I didn't care about anything.
Nothing looked real to me. The piano didn't look real. And when I nearly
broke down it wasn't because I was nervous, or forgot. It was just that
I felt too bored to go on. It was as though something inside the piano
said to me--'You blasted fool, do you think you can bring me out whenever
you want, and show me off? I'll show _you_ off for what you are--just a
hopeless idiot.'"

George looked solemn at this. "I think the trouble with you, Finch, is
that you take yourself too seriously. All your family are inclined to
take themselves too seriously. It's in the blood. All that talk about
the Court nose! And the Court temper! I tell you, it isn't done
nowadays. It isn't worth while feeling yourself different from other
people. As to there being something inside the piano that jeers at you
and tells you things, when what you are is just frightened, that's
letting your imagination get the upper hand of you. When I was a kid I
used to imagine things, so I know all about it. That big stuffed owl
that stands in the niche of the stairway was one of the things I got
nervous about. I knew quite well that he was only a queer specimen my
grandfather had shot in the North somewhere. I knew he was moth-eaten.
But I got it into my silly young head that there was something queer
about him ... that he didn't like me."

"Did you really?" Finch leant forward, his eyes full of intense
curiosity. He had never heard George talk like this before, and it
brought them very near each other.

"Yes. And I'd never go up the stairs without wondering if it wasn't in
his mind to nip me on the left leg as I was passing. I could have sworn
that he moved on his perch."

Finch saw before him George--not the sober-eyed youth who faced him--but a
little boy creeping up the stairs, his frightened gaze held by the owl's
dark stare, his soft hair rising into a halo.

George gave a chuckle. "Well, one night, on my way to bed, I was so sure
that he was going to nip me that I went up the stairs in about three
leaps. My heart was pounding so I could hardly breathe. I stood at the
top, hanging on to the banister and glaring down at my left leg to make
sure it was all right. Just then father came out of his study and looked
up at me. 'What's the matter?' he asked, and I whined that I was afraid
the owl was going to nip my leg. Well, he ran up the stairs and picked
me up and carried me back to the niche where the owl was. He said--'Now
put your leg right under his beak, and, if he bites you, I'll throttle
him.' So I did, and of course nothing happened. Even after that I was a
bit nervous. But the next night I got my courage up and I stopped on the
step that was on a level with his niche. I stuck my leg in and I
squeaked--'Bite me, old owl, if you dare!' And when he didn't, I gave him
a good swift kick and ran on upstairs.  ... Ever since then I am done
with imaginings." His eyes beamed into Finch's. "Of course, I'm not
comparing the fancies of a silly kid to the fancies of a grown man, but
their root is in the same place, and the place is fear. I think if you
had had someone like my father to take you in hand you mightn't be so
full of fancies to-day. He did more for me that night than he ever knew
of."

Finch nodded. "If one of my brothers had found out that I was afraid of
a stuffed owl, he'd have told me things about its habits that would have
curdled my blood."

"Look here, old fellow, take my advice. Get yourself in hand and make up
your mind that you'll not let anything frighten you out of doing what
you want to. You do want to be a great pianist, don't you?"

Finch mumbled--"I don't know what I want, George, and that's a fact,
except that I don't want to go on with my University course. I could
howl when I think of all the money Renny's wasted on me. He's got to let
me pay it back. If I could just have a few months to myself--to think--to
get used to myself. There's no use in talking--you can't imagine what
it's like to be such a duffer as I am!"

They smoked in silence for a space, George regarding Finch's bowed head
affectionately, Finch's mind playing, in spite of himself, about the
white owl. George said suddenly:

"Well, you have your own life. Your own work, whatever it's going to be;
and if you don't want to work at all you are your own man, no one can
force you. Do you realise that?"

Finch started. "What's that? Oh, yes, my own man! Of course ... I can do
what I like."

"Yes," went on George, solidly. "You can do _what_ you like just when
you like. Now I think the first thing you should do is to take a trip.
Travel round a bit and see things. You'd get a different slant on your
life. You'd get used to yourself. You'd get away from the family."

Finch began to laugh. "Funny you'd suggest that. It's just what I have
been planning--with one big difference. I'm thinking of taking my uncles
with me."

"You're not in earnest!"

"Yes, I am! They've been wanting for years to visit the Old Country
again. Their sister lives in England, you know. They are getting old.
Haven't much time to waste. I know what it would mean to them. And if it
came through me, you understand, well ... it would make a kinder
feeling."

George rumpled his hair in deep puzzlement. "It's your idea, then, to
start out to see the world, and do this thinking you talk about, with an
ancient uncle on either side of you," he said musingly. "And your
sight-seeing would be to visit an ancient aunt. Well, all I can say is,
you are the world's champion philanthropist!"

"Rot! I'll go off on my own whenever I like. And I'm awfully fond of my
aunt. I've been wanting to visit her all my life.... My position is so
peculiar, George. I can't quite explain, but it amounts to this. I can't
really enjoy my money, and all the possibilities it opens up to me,
until I've done something--not necessarily a big thing--but something
quite decent for each of the others. It's as though there were a spell
on me that I must work through." His eyes were fixed, with an expression
George thought hallucinated, on the smoke from his pipe that hung in a
level blue plane before him.

"Of course, of course," he agreed, yet thought--"What a queer egg! But
one must take him as he is." Like the piano, the banjo, the mandolin,
Finch was accepted by George for the peculiar qualities that gave
companionship in season.

"What have you thought of doing for Piers?" he asked; and he remembered,
a little grimly, times when Piers had bullied Finch.

"I don't know. Something he'll like for his work, or perhaps something
for Pheasant. I'm not going to be in a hurry about it. They'd say at
once that I was showing off. No, it's got to come slowly, beginning with
the uncles." His gaze that had been remote, now moved, with speculative
interest, to the stove-pipe hole in the floor. A low murmur of voices
came from the kitchen below.

"Yes," said George, "they're still at it--Lizzie and her steady--and they
get no forrarder, as far as I can see." He moved to the extreme edge of
his chair and peered through the opening as though into a cage at the
Zoo. Finch also moved nearer, crouching beside him, their heads
touching.

They could see one end of a clean kitchen table on which stood a dish of
red apples. They could see a pair of man's hands, middle-aged and horny,
paring an apple with a thick-handled pocket knife. The apple was being
pared meticulously so that the paring should not be broken, but removed
whole from stem to blossom. The two above watched, fascinated, seeing
the fine rosy skin of the fruit drop from it, leaving the fruit itself,
white as a woman's breast, in the coarse fingers. The paring was pushed
across the table to an unseen person; the apple was halved. Then a slice
was cut from it, impaled on the knife and put into the mouth of the
peeler himself. They glimpsed his grizzled forelock as his head advanced
to it. Another slice was impaled and presented to the mouth across the
table, and so, a slice at a time, the apple was demolished. The clumsy
hands gathered up seeds and core, disposed of them somewhere, picked up
another apple and began to pare it. There was an indistinct mumbling of
talk.

Finch returned to his seat with a sigh. "How long has this been going
on?" he asked.

"About five years."

"God, isn't life wonderful?"

"Love is certainly a queer thing. Especially when it takes them like
that."

"I expect it's queer no matter how it takes you."

"Been seeing much of girls lately?"

"No. Too busy."

"You liked Ada Leigh, didn't you?"

"H'm--h'm. She's been in France with her mother."

"I don't believe you've a great opinion of that sex, Finch."

"Oh ... I don't know," he sighed deeply. "I haven't had much experience
of them."

George folded his arms and spoke rather ponderously. "A really dazzling
one comes into our office sometimes, about investments, you know. A rich
widow. She always seems to want my advice about things. I can't see why,
because I'm only a junior. She always seems to want to know just what I
think about everything. Some women are odd, aren't they?"

"How old is she?"

"I couldn't possibly tell. Once they're past twenty I'm all at sea."

"But you've a way with you, Jarge," said Finch affectionately.

George unfolded his arms and unknit his brow. "How about a little
music?" he asked.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On the way down the stairs, Finch had stopped to look at the stuffed
white owl. He had thrust his hands under its great folded wings and felt
the deep downiness there. He had put his face close to the black beak,
the glittering eyes. A sensuous pleasure had run over his body at the
feel of the owl's downiness. He thought of the pure whiteness where his
hands were hid....

All the way home he exulted in thoughts of it. The face of the earth
seemed to him like the owl's breast; the stars had the cold glitter of
the owl's eyes; the bitter wind was its hoot.... It had left its perch
and swept through the open door of the Rectory with him, and had become
one with the night, the beating of its wings the rhythm of the universe.

He left the road and took his customary short cut through the fields,
though the path had long been obliterated. The snow lay in great drifts,
light as mounds of fallen feathers. He dashed through them, bounding,
with each leap, as high as he could. All his instinct revolted against
being grown up. He wished only to be a wild, half-mad boy, that the
passage of time might not touch him.... He pulled off his cap and ran
bareheaded, dancing with his shadow, trying to wrest his spirit from his
body, and toss it, a glistening essence, into the frosty air. He fancied
how the great owl would pounce on it, a tender morsel for its
starry-eyed young, and sweep Poleward with it, uttering a whoo-hoo that
would shake the universe.

He left the fields and ran through the pinewood. He left the pinewood
and ran through the birchwood, where the silvery trees bathed themselves
in the moonlight as in a sea, laving their round boles in it, keeping
nothing of themselves from it, shivering in their naked whiteness as
they drowned themselves in it.

He ran through the apple orchard, where the gnarled black shapes of the
trees were like old men dancing. There was an icy pathway there from
which the wind had blown the snow, and he slid along it, cap in hand, in
long graceful glides.

He ran through the young cherry orchard, where the trees stood in
straight rows like timid, half-grown girls, and, as he emerged into the
garden, he saw the lights of the house welcoming him.

As soon as he saw them the shadow of the owl grew smaller, but still, he
thought, it followed him, swooping, lower and lower, towards his legs. A
sensation of terror took hold of him. He ran panting, his consciousness
trickling from his brain to his nether parts. Would it catch him before
he reached the door?

It was level with him, its eyes afire. He plunged across the lawn, and
flung himself against the door. It flew open, and, at the same instant,
he felt a cruel nip on the left leg!

"My dear boy," said Uncle Ernest, "what a draught you're letting in.
Shut the door quickly! And you may as well bolt it for the night."




                                   IV


                              THE BIRTHDAY

It came on the first day of March. He had narrowly escaped being born on
the twenty-ninth of February, which, in addition to having been born
with a caul, would have singled him out with a directness almost
ominous. As it was, he was quite satisfied to have first seen the light
with the arrival of Spring; and, on this particular birthday, the Season
did not, as was its wont, appear crouching under the cloak of Winter. On
the contrary, it was a day of remarkable mildness for the time of year.
Rain had fallen steadily all the preceding day and night, and by the
time the sun had emerged from the rain-clouds there were already patches
of bare ground on the lawn. By noon that part of it which was not in
shadow lay revealed to the warmth of the sun. Last year's grass had
retained something of its colour, and even seemed to have grown, as the
hair of a dead person is said to flourish morbidly for long after
burial.

The withered forms of last year's asters and calendula lay sodden on the
soaking soil of the flower border; under the hedge last year's leaves
lay in a discoloured ridge. Yet all was enlivened by a boundless hope.
The abnormally large drops of rain and melted snow that were strung on
every twig and blade and ledge were glancing with radiant brightness.
The sky was swept clean of all that came between its sun and the earth.
No return of cold and snow could efface the promise of this day.

The door into the hall stood wide open letting in the sun. It was on
such a day as this that old Adeline would take her first walk of the
year. Wrapped in innumerable cloaks, scarves, and petticoats, so that
she looked a very battleship of a woman, she would come into view,
supported by her sons, and present herself foursquare to the reviving
world. "I'm out again!" she would exclaim. "Ha! I like the smell of the
fresh air!"

Finch thought a good deal about her to-day, recalling their strange
delayed intimacy that had drawn them so mysteriously together, wondering
if it were possible to him to live in a way that would have won her
approbation. Still, she had known him for what he was, had loved him,
had accepted him as one of "the whelps" her son Philip had got by his
second wife.

He stood in the porch sunning himself, and watched Rags furbishing up
the hall. How shabby both hall and servant looked in the noonday
brightness! The slender walnut banister and carved newel-post were
elegant enough, but the wallpaper along the stairway showed dingy where
small hands had been pressed against it. Certainly it had never been
repapered in his time. The carpet on the stairs was threadbare. The
Turkish rug on the floor had lost all its fringe. The fringe had
reappeared miraculously on the cuff of Rags's coat. This cuff was being
violently agitated as he polished the mirror in the hat-rack above which
the carved head of a fox sneered down at him.

"Well," he said, seeing Finch, "many happy returns of the d'y to you,
sir!"

"Thanks, Rags."

"We couldn't 'ave a finer d'y for the occasion, not if it 'ad been
hordered! It's a fine thing to be twenty-one, sir, and to 'ave all the
money in the family." He looked over his shoulder at Finch with an air
of innocent envy.

Finch felt like taking the fellow by the scruff of his grizzled neck and
shaking him. He said--"You don't know what you're talking about, Rags."

The little Cockney proceeded imperturbably:

"It's a 'appy d'y for us all, I'm sure, sir. Mrs. Wragge was saying to
me just a bit ago that she'd prayed for a fine d'y. I don't go in for
prayer much myself, but, as the saying is, strawrs tell which way the
wind blows. Not that she is much like a strawr, sir. More like a
strawr_stack_, I'd say. I 'ardly dare to go into the kitchen this
morning, she and Bessie are that worked up with excitement. And the
thought of those caterers coming out from town with all their
paraffinaliar!" He came to the door and shook out his cloth. He then
produced a small, foreign-looking leather pocket-book from somewhere
about his clothes. He proffered this to Finch with a bow.

"Will you accept this from me, Mr. Finch, as a little offering? I
brought it 'ome with me from the War. It belonged to a German officer.
And I've always thought that if the d'y come when I 'ad a pot of money,
I'd use it myself. But the d'y 'asn't come, and it looks as though it
never _would_ come--not in _this_ country, and at _this_ job--so, if
you'll accept it, I'll give it to you with my best wishes, and may it
always be full!"

Finch took it, embarrassed. It was a handsome pocket-book, and there was
something touching in Rags's expression as he offered it; but Finch
always had the uncomfortable feeling that Rags was laughing in his
sleeve at him.

"Thanks, very much," he mumbled. "It's an awfully good one." He opened
it, looked in it, shut it, Rags regarding him with an expression of
mingled sadness and pride. He gave his duster another shake and
re-entered the hall.

Mooey was descending the stairs on his little seat, a step at a time.
Finch watched him, feeling suddenly very happy. Everyone was amazingly
nice to him. Renny had given him a wrist-watch. Piers and Pheasant, gold
cuff-links. Uncle Nicholas a paper weight, and Uncle Ernest a
water-colour from the wall of his own room. Alayne had given him a
crocodile-skin travelling-bag, and Wakefield a large clothes brush
which, he explained, would "come in handy to whack his kids with when he
had any." Meggie's present was yet to arrive.

"Bump!" sang out Mooey. "I'm toming! Bump! Bump! Bump! I'm not
f'ightened!"

Finch went to the foot of the stairs and snatched him up. He put him on
his shoulder, and, out of the shadows of the past came a picture of
himself, caught up thus by Renny. A queer thing life.... One tall strong
body, one little weak body after another.... Some day Mooey would stand
at the foot of the stairs and shoulder some tiny boy just as to-day he
was doing.... And Mooey would be twenty-one, and whose would be the tiny
boy? Some little Whiteoak, out of a Whiteoak body....

Mooey clasped Finch's head, and pressed his round flower-like face to
Finch's thin one. "I want to go out on the nish geen gash," he said.

"The grass may be green, but it's not nice. It's nasty and soggy."

"I I--like nawsty soggy fings."

"Very well, I'll carry you out and stand you on your head on it." He ran
out the door and down the steps.

"There's a nish soggy spot," said Mooey, pointing out a puddle.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," cried Finch. "I'll take you to the stables
to see Uncle Renny." He had got an idea. He would find Renny and
approach the subject of quitting the University this very hour. Renny
was always more or less absent-minded and good-humoured when he was
among his horses. The presence of Mooey would be a help too, for Renny
had a way of staring at him speculatively and only half-listening to
what was being said.

They found the master of Jalna in the paddock, mounted on a bright bay
mare which he was training as a high-jumper. Two grooms stood by a
hurdle, the top bar of which they raised and lowered in accordance with
the shouted directions of the rider.

Finch, carrying Mooey wrapped in a man's jersey, stood by the enclosure
unnoticed save by a casual glance. The mounting strength of the sun was
poured down on this sheltered spot, giving the impression of a day in
late April rather than one in early March. The intrinsic quality of all
on which the sun rays fell was made evident in smell or colour. The
earth, newly thawed, trampled by the feet of horses and men, gave forth
a pungent and profoundly vital odour. There had been pressed and soaked
and baked and frozen into it--ever since Captain Philip Whiteoak, almost
eighty years before, had chosen this particular place for this
purpose--rotted straw and manure, and the impalpable essence absorbed by
the earth from the sanguine activities of men and beasts. Every hair in
the young mare's mane and tail seemed charged with energy. Her hide
glistened as though varnished, her eyes flashed back the light. Renny's
strong-muscled, mud-spattered legs, his weather-beaten, sweating face,
his bare head against which the hair was plastered, the red healthy
faces of Wright and Dawlish, their capable hands that took up and
replaced the fallen bar, the skin of their hands dry from the grooming
of horses and stained with harness oil, all these were discovered in the
spring sunlight.

Between the two men, the mare, and her rider there existed a sympathy
not needing the expression of words. When she felt panic and sheered off
from the jump or valiantly essayed it and failed, a like shadow seemed
to fall across all four. She blew out her breath in what seemed a great
sigh. The grooms dubiously replaced the bar; and Renny, wheeling her
about, drew his brows together in a rueful frown. But, when she swung
clear of the hurdle, and hung like a bird for a space against the sky,
before she alighted triumphant and cantered down the course, a
brightness of aspect descended as the sun's rays on men and mare. A
group of cows that had collected as spectators by the fence of an
adjoining enclosure looked on the scene with complete lack of sympathy.
At the critical moment one might stop chewing the cud, as though the
better to concentrate on what was going on, but, be the leap never so
birdlike or the failure never so forlorn, the cud-chewing was resumed
with an aloof serenity.

Finch thought--"She has done well; I believe it's a good time to speak."

Renny had dismounted and given the bridle to Wright and was strolling
toward him, scrubbing the palms of his hands with a crumpled
handkerchief.

"Wasn't she splendid?" asked Finch, scrutinising his elder's face. "I
think she's going to be a wonderful jumper."

"I hope so. She's a sweet thing. I intend to ride her in New York this
fall, if possible." He turned to Mooey. "Hello, what's the matter with
your nose?" He gave the small feature a decisive wipe with the
handkerchief.

"I suppose," said Finch, "he should have something on his head."

Mooey, his nose quite pink, observed:

"I'm going to jump a nish 'orsey and not be f'ightened neider."

"He talks too much about not being frightened," said Renny. "It sounds
as though he were trying to reassure himself. I hope he's not going to
be a duffer at riding, like you."

"I hope not," returned Finch dolefully. It took so little to cast him
down.

There was silence for a moment while Renny struck at the flakes of mud
on his legs with his riding-crop, then Finch set the little boy on his
feet, and, turning to his brother, broke out with the energy of despair.

"Look here, Renny, it's impossible for me to go back to 'Varsity! I
simply can't do it!"

Renny continued to strike at his leg with his riding-crop, but he did
not speak. His face hardened.

Finch continued--"You can't know how it is with me. You're always doing
the most congenial work. 'Varsity isn't congenial to me. It isn't
anything to me but a grind and a flatness and an unreality. I don't see
any sense in sticking it out."

The fiery brown eyes, before which he quailed, were raised to his. "What
the hell is congenial to you? I wish you'd tell me. I thought music was,
and I've let you take lessons and spend hours practising when you ought
to have been studying. Then, when you play at a recital, you play your
worst, and you tell me that audiences aren't congenial----"

"I didn't!" cried Finch. "I didn't say that! I said that I was afraid of
audiences----"

"Afraid! By God--afraid--that's the trouble! You're always afraid! No
wonder the kid there whines about not being frightened! You've put it in
his head!"

Finch had turned white. He had begun to shake.

"Renny! Look here! Listen! I--I--you don't understand----"

"Of course I don't! Nobody understands. You're not like anyone else, are
you? You're a student, and you can't study! You're an actor, and you
can't act! You're a pianist, and you can't play! You're twenty-one, and
you act like a girl in her teens!"

Finch flung out his hand. The sun touched the face of the wrist-watch
Renny had given him that morning. He cursed himself for a fool. Why, oh
why, had he chosen this day of all days for his declaration! He dropped
his arm. He was cut to the heart.

Renny went on--"I suppose you think that because you're of age to-day and
are coming into some money----"

"No! No, I don't! I only thought I'd like to tell you--at least, ought to
tell you----"

"Why didn't you tell me long ago? Why did you let me go on planning for
your education----"

In spite of the unhappy turmoil of his emotions, Finch could not help
wondering what effort of the brain Renny had spent on him beyond the
tardy digging up of his tuition fees, and the determination that he
should not evade one lecture or examination.

He got out, hoarsely----"You shall have it all back!"

"Not a cent! I won't have a cent of it back!"

"But why? There's no reason why you shouldn't!" cried Finch
distractedly.

"There's every reason. I won't take a cent of it."

"But why?"

"Because if I took it back I should not have reared you and educated
you, as it was my duty to do."

"But there's no reason in that! I know how hard it is for you to get
money. All along I've said to myself--'I'll make it up to Renny!' The
thought of that bucked me up to tell you this to-day. Renny, you must
take it back!"

"Not a penny. Well, I can't force you to go on, but I can feel that I've
done my best, and, if you're a mess, it's not my fault!" He had worked
himself into a temper. He showed his teeth, Finch thought, as though he
would like to bite him. Things were blurred before Finch's eyes. The
sunlit scene before him began to revolve. He put his hands on the
palings and held himself together with an effort.

Mooey looked from one uncle to the other, his lip quivering. "I'm not
f'ightened!" he said.

Renny made as if to strike him with his riding-crop. "Say that again and
I'll thrash you!" Nothing on earth would have induced him to touch Mooey
with the riding-crop, but he felt and looked as though he could. Mooey
raised his voice in a howl of anguish.

At this moment Piers drove up to them in the car. He had been to the
village and had brought the post. He got out with the letters in his
hand. His son moved toward him screaming, in a kind of dance.

Renny said--"That's a nice young milksop you've got! He's frightened of
his own shadow! He takes after his Uncle Finch!"

Piers's fatherliness was roused. He picked up his child and comforted
him. "What's it all about? What's he been doing? It seems to me that you
look fierce enough to frighten anyone."

"Oh, it's nothing," said Renny. "Only Finch has just been telling me
that he's not going to 'Varsity any more. It's uncongenial to him."

Piers's prominent blue eyes took in the situation. He did not speak for
a moment while he turned the matter over in his mind. Then he said in
his deep voice:

"Well, it's no surprise to me. I always knew he didn't like college. I
didn't like it myself. I don't see any sense in his taking a course in
Arts--going in for a profession--unless he wants. If I were in his place
I'd do just as he is doing."

Without another word Renny turned and strode toward the stable. Piers
looked after the tall retreating figure with composure. "You've got his
back up," he said. "He'll not get over this to-day."

"I don't know what I'm to do," said Finch bitterly. "I couldn't go on
with it. And I thought I could make it up to him ... but he won't let
me. He simply got in a rage...."

"Gran will never be dead while he lives! You may have her gold, but he
has her temper."

Finch broke out--"I wish he had them both." His jaw shook so that he had
to clench his teeth to control it.

"Keep your shirt on," said Piers soothingly. "You won't be twenty-one
for long. My advice is to make the most of it. Go away for a while and
he'll forgive you and want you back." He looked over the letters. "Here
is one for you from England. A birthday greeting from Aunt Augusta, I
guess."

Finch took the letter and glanced at the spidery handwriting. He turned,
with an ache in his throat, in the direction of the house. "Thanks," he
muttered; and added--"And thanks for standing up for me."

"That was nothing. I don't usually see eye to eye with you, but I do in
this. You'd be a fool to waste your time in doing what you hate when you
have all the world before you.... Do you like the cuff-links?" Piers was
one of those who find it difficult to express thanks for a gift
themselves, but who take a sincere pleasure in the reiterated thanks of
others.

Finch brightened. "Oh, yes. I like them awfully."

"They're quite good ones, you know."

"I can see that. But you and Pheasant shouldn't have done it. It was too
much."

"Well, I've never given you a present before ... and, if you like
them...."

"I like them tremendously."

"We went into town together to pick them out. The day the car broke down
and she got that chill."

Finch's gratitude deepened. "I remember. It was too bad her getting a
chill on my account."

"She didn't mind.... There goes the stable clock. I'll be late for
lunch. I don't suppose it will amount to much to-day, with the dinner
coming on.... I'll take the kid with me."

On the way to the house Finch opened his Aunt's letter. He had a deep
affection for her. She had shown him many kindnesses on her visits to
Jalna, had worried considerably over his thinness, and tried
unsuccessfully to fatten him. It was like her to have remembered his
birthday, and to have posted her letter in time to reach him on the very
day. He read, his lips twisting into a wry smile at the last paragraph:

                                                    "LYMING HALL,
                                                NYMET CREWS, DEVON,
                                                 _18th February_.
       "MY DEAR NEPHEW,

    "When you receive this letter you will, I trust, be well and
    happy, and at the _proud_ moment of attaining your majority. You
    are arriving at manhood surrounded by the most _auspicious_
    circumstances. I only wish I might be with you to give you my
    good wishes in person. But I very much doubt whether I shall
    ever visit Canada again. The mere undertaking of the journey at
    my age is _terrific_. The sea voyage with its attendant
    _nausea_, the exhausting journey by rail in the discomfort and
    heat of your _trains_, and, added to this, the sad knowledge
    that my dear mother no longer awaits with extended arms for my
    coming. Neither do my brothers invariably show me that
    consideration which they should. Particularly I mention
    _Nicholas_. Mentioning him, of course, in the strictest
    confidence.

    "I should like very much to have you visit me this summer during
    your holidays. Even a short stay in England at this period of
    your life would help to broaden you.

    "I wish I could offer you lively society, as I might have done
    once; but those days are past. They are gone like the days when
    my parents entertained so lavishly at Jalna.

    "But I can offer you young company in the shape of Sarah Court
    your cousin once removed. She and the aunt (by marriage) with
    whom she lives are coming from Ireland to spend part of the
    summer with me. Mrs. Court's husband was the brother of Sarah's
    father. They were the sons of Thomas Court, my mother's youngest
    brother. Mrs. Court is an Englishwoman, though still living in
    Ireland, and you would never think that Sarah herself was Irish.
    She is twenty-five, a quite superior girl intellectually,
    musical like yourself. I have always esteemed the aunt, though
    she is a very peculiar woman and places too much importance (in
    my opinion) on her high _blood pressure_. I am sure you and
    Sarah would get on together.

    "If you would like to visit me, I shall write to Renny and tell
    him that it is my desire to have you. It was such a delight to
    me that he and Alayne were married from my house and spent their
    honeymoon _nearby_. Give my fondest love to my other dear
    nephews and nieces, my brothers (I so often long to see them),
    and my baby grand-nephew.

    "I hope you will be very happy, my dear Finch, and I think you
    may rest assured that not one of us harbours any feeling of
    _malevolence_ towards you in the matter of your inheritance.

                        "Your affectionate Aunt,
                                              "AUGUSTA BUCKLEY.

    "P.S.--Quite recently I had a letter from Eden. He approached me
    for _money_. He did not mention _that woman_.--A. B."

                  *       *       *       *       *

Finch carried the letter to Alayne where she was arranging carnations on
the birthday-table.

"Look, Finch," she cried, "aren't they beauties? They arrived perfectly
fresh. I arranged them at first with tulle banked about them, but it
didn't suit the room at all. You can't do what you like with this room;
it's got too much character."

Finch sniffed the carnations and eyed the expanse of damask and silver
with some concern. He had never been the object of an occasion before,
and the pleasure it gave him was overweighed by apprehension, even
though the guests were only relations and the nearest neighbours. He
said nervously:

"You don't suppose they'll drink my health, do you? Want me to make a
speech or anything? I'd be in a blue funk if I thought that was hanging
over me."

"Of course they'll drink your health. All you've got to do is to get up
and make a little bow and say a few words of thanks."

Finch groaned.

"Don't be silly! How can you possibly be afraid of saying a few words at
your own table when you played so splendidly before a hall full of
people?"

"If you think you cheer me by bringing up that recital, you're mistaken.
I hate the thought of it!"

"I don't! I look back on it with pride." But she dared not look at him
for fear her eyes should betray her knowledge that he had not played his
best.

He drew a long sigh. "Well, the table's awfully pretty. Where are we
going to have lunch?"

"In the sitting-room. It's ready now."

"I've just had a letter from Aunt Augusta. Have you time to read it
now?"

"Yes, I'd love to." She sat down on the arm of a chair near a window, in
an attitude that suggested both repose and capability of purpose.
Finch's eyes rested on the gold of her hair, the blue of her dress.
Seeing her so he felt, as he often felt about her, that she never had
and never could become one of them, even to the fitting of her person
into the surrounding objects of the house. She looked as though she had
just walked in from a different world, bringing with her an atmosphere
of clarity and questioning, and would walk out again, her clarity
perhaps disturbed, but her questioning unanswered. Yet she was easily
agitated. Sometimes he felt a wildness of spirit in her, as though she
would by her will force her way into the fibre of their life, take
possession as she was possessed.

She looked up and found his eyes on her and smiled.

"What a characteristic letter!" she exclaimed. "I think her underlining
is delicious. And her adjectives.... Oh, my dear, what could be more
perfect than _malevolence_?" She turned the page and read the
postscript, but she made no comment on it, except by a scornful movement
of the lips.

"What do you think," asked Finch, "of my going over to visit Aunt
Augusta? I'd like to go. I've just told Renny that I can't go back to
'Varsity."

"How did he take it?" She was not surprised because they had talked of
that together. But she could not speak of Renny without all her being
quivering into oversensitiveness.

"Just what you'd expect. We had a row."

"Oh, I'm sorry! What a shame--on your birthday!"

"Well--now he knows. One unexpected thing happened. Piers took my side."

She wondered why Piers had taken his side. She suspected him of being
shrewd, and she could never be unconscious of his dislike for her,
though it was concealed behind an air of heartiness. He had welcomed her
even less as mistress of Jalna than he had welcomed her when she had
first come there as Eden's wife. He would have liked Pheasant to be the
only woman in the house, his wife, a young girl and docile, though she
had been wanton once.

Alayne said--"You must go to England. You must!" She took him by the
lapels of his coat and gave him a quick kiss. It was the first time she
had ever kissed him. She realised his spiritual hunger, and the kiss was
a gesture, not only of comfort, but of urge to the fulfilment of that
hunger.

He felt a high excitement. His eyes shone. "How beautiful you are to
me," he said, taking her hands in his.

"Do you know," she said teasingly, "I believe Aunt Augusta has it in her
mind to make a match between you and this Sarah Court."

"Nonsense! She looks on me as a boy."

"Yes, but boys grow into husbands. Especially in a house with an
attractive cousin."

"I don't like the sound of her."

"She's musical."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"Well, don't think I should want you to marry. You ought not to marry
till you are fully matured. Not for years and years."

The luncheon bell sounded, and almost at once they heard voices in the
sitting-room. They found the others there, standing about eating
roast-beef sandwiches and drinking tea. Wakefield, excited by the
novelty, darted here and there, half a buttered scone in each hand. Not
since his grandmother's funeral had there been such excitement in the
house. Not since then had there been a meal that was not a meal, and the
opening of the doors to invited guests. And all about Finch! Wakefield,
for the first time in his life, regarded him with respect. He found a
chair and, hooking his arms beneath its arms, dragged it towards him.

"Here!" he cried exuberantly. "Here's a chair! Sit down and rest
yourself."

There was an outburst of laughter at Finch's expense. He pushed child
and chair aside, and went, with a sheepish frown, to the table where the
viands were spread. He picked up a sandwich, and, before he remembered
to offer the plate to Alayne, had taken a large bite from it. He
attempted to get tea for her, and slopped it into the saucer. He was in
despair with himself.

Renny was in despair with him too. He stood watching his fumbling
movements with brooding disapproval. What the devil was the matter with
the fellow? He was always wrought up over something. And this latest!
This wanting to throw up his studies the very moment of coming into his
money! It was the spinelessness of him, that was what was so
exasperating. If only he were wild, reckless--but this shrinking from
things! Were these half-brothers whom he had reared to be one
disappointment after another? All but Piers! He'd no fault to find with
Piers. But Eden.... Never able to earn his own living, and yet somehow
able to keep that girl, Minny.... He hadn't married her though, which he
ought to have done.... Now Finch was coming on.... And little Wake, who
was like his own child, what would he make of him? He looked gloomily at
the undersized boy, with his sensitive dark face, his long-lashed,
brilliant eyes, too big for the face ... he'd been caught lying, he'd
been caught stealing ... well, life was a queer, mournful thing, and
this was a queer, mournful occasion, though the others might stand about
grinning with their sandwiches like a lot of school-children at a feed.

Nicholas thought, with an inward chuckle--"Renny might have put a better
face on it, seeing that Ernest and I have achieved a festive air. After
all, the party was his idea."

Finch could not get enough to eat. As usual, when he was mentally
disturbed, he found the cavity within more difficult to fill, especially
with a scrappy meal like this. No number of buns spread with damson jam
would do it. He was the last in the room. He had hoped that Renny would
linger, giving him a chance to propitiate him; but, after bolting two
sandwiches and a cup of tea that might well have seared insides of less
tough fibre, he had stalked out.

It seemed that the afternoon would never pass. Finch hung about the
house watching the preparations, playing snatches at the piano, teasing
Pheasant, and, when possible, having moments of serious conversation
with Alayne on that subject of never failing interest--himself.

He and Wakefield went to the kitchen in the basement and surveyed the
fowls all trussed up for roasting, and the wine-glasses all polished up
for filling, and the moulds of jelly, and the buckets filled with
chopped ice into which were thrust the containers holding the Neapolitan
ice sent out from Town. They had never seen Mrs. Wragge's face so
purple, or Wragge's so pallid, or Bessie's arms, as she scrubbed the
celery, so mottled. All were atwitter with excitement. They looked at
Finch with wonder in their eyes, to think that he had attained this
pinnacle.

Long before it was time to dress for dinner he was in his attic room.
The night had turned cold. He got into his dressing-gown, a gaily
coloured one that had once been Eden's, his bedroom slippers that had
once been Renny's, took his bath-towel, one of a pair given him by
Meggie at Christmas, and descended to the bathroom. There was a chill
there too, but he had told Rags to fill the tin tub with very hot water,
and it was hot enough in all conscience. Hot enough to boil him. When he
ran upstairs again he was pink from heat and in a state of high
excitement.

Already he had laid his evening clothes on the bed. They had only been
worn twice before, once at a dance at the Leighs' and once at the
recital. The jacket became him well, he thought, surveying himself in
the small glass. Alayne had given him a white carnation to wear. He
brushed his moist hair, giving special attention to the lock that had a
habit of dangling on his forehead. He polished his nails and wished that
his fingers were not so stained by cigarettes. A shiver ran over him
which he did not know whether to attribute to excitement or the change
from the hot bath to the cold room. God! How well the new cuff-links and
the new wrist-watch looked! He glanced at the face of the watch.... It
was an hour and a half before dinner-time!

What to do! He could not go downstairs at this hour, looking like a
fool, with a carnation in his button-hole. Yet he should die of cold if
he spent the intervening time up here. He cursed himself for his stupid
haste.

Still, if he chose to go down and sit for an hour and a half in the
drawing-room, whose business was it but his own? He supposed he could do
as he liked on his own birthday.... He was half-way down the attic
stairs when he heard Piers ascending the lower stairs, whistling. They
would meet in the passage, or Piers, glancing up, would see him on the
stairway. One look at him in those clothes, at that hour, would be
enough to make Piers humorous at his expense for the evening. He could
hear him greet an early arrival with--"Too bad you couldn't have got here
earlier. Young Finch has been waiting, all dressed up, for an hour and a
half to welcome you!" No, he must never risk that! Not risk being seen
by any of the family.

He turned back and re-entered his room. He looked at his watch. Five
minutes had passed. Somehow or other he must put in the next hour and a
quarter in that cavern of coldness. He looked longingly at the bed. If
only he might lie down and cover himself with the quilt and keep warm!
But his suit would be ruined by wrinkles in no time. The next best thing
was to wrap the quilt about him and find something to read. He folded it
carefully about his shoulders, keeping one hand curved above the
carnation to protect it. He felt utterly miserable.... What hell coming
of age was!

From his shelf of books he took a volume of Wordsworth's poems. It was
handsomely bound, the only prize he had ever got at school. The support
he craved, the something of pride in achievement, might be in that book,
he thought. Something to fortify him in this hour. He sat down, opened
it and read: "Presented to Finch Whiteoak for the excellence of his
memorising of Holy Scripture." And the date, nine years before. He had
been a small boy then, at a small school. Nine years ago.... He was
getting on!

He thought of the numerous prizes each of the others had won at school,
for they had each had a subject or two in which they excelled. As for
prizes for athletics.... They had been put to it to find places for all
the silver cups and urns.... Well, at any rate, he had got one, that was
better than nothing. He read stolidly for what seemed a long time,
dividing his attention between his new cuff-links and watch, and the
poetry for which he did not much care. But the rhythm of it eased him
somehow, the quilt comforted. It was no easy matter to keep it around
him, protecting the carnation with one hand and holding up the book of
poems with the other. He did wish he had a cigarette; yet he was afraid
of disarranging himself to get it, lest in the rearranging the carnation
might be injured. It might be better to take the carnation off for the
time, but there was the danger in pinning it on again.

He heard Wakefield running below and gave a piercing whistle to attract
him. He came flying up the stairs. Finch concealed the poems under the
quilt.

"Hello," said Wakefield, "what are you wrapped up in a quilt for?"

"Been having a bath and got chilled. Look in that top drawer and hand me
the package of cigarettes, like a good kid."

"I say," exclaimed Wake, as he handed him the cigarettes, "how funny you
look! You're wrapped in a quilt, and yet I can see your pumps and pants
underneath!"

Finch scowled at him in what he hoped was a terrifying way, but he dared
advance no more than his fingers from the quilt toward the cigarettes
because of his cuffs. Yet Wake held them just out of reach.

"Give them here!" snarled Finch out of the side of his mouth like a
stage villain.

"I am giving them," Wake's tone was meek, but his eyes were on a narrow
aperture in the quilt and he brought the cigarettes no nearer. "Here
they are. Why don't you take them?"

"How the hell can I take them when you hold them away off there?"

"It's not away off. It's just a little bit of a way. What's the matter
with you? Do you feel sick? Because, if you do, perhaps you'd better not
smoke."

Exasperated beyond endurance, Finch shot forth his hand from the quilt
and snatched the packet of cigarettes, instantly drawing the quilt once
more tightly about him. "Now," he said, "clear out of here and no more
of your cheek!"

Wakefield seemed to drift out of the room and down the stairs, so
pensive was his mien. Finch felt hot all over. He let the quilt slide
from his shoulders and put a cigarette between his lips. He reached for
a match, but, just as he struck it, he heard Wakefield and Piers talking
in the passage below. He held his breath and heard soft steps ascending
the stairs. Like an arrow from the bow he leaped to the door. Just as
Piers reached the landing he threw himself against it. He shot the bolt.
Smothered laughter came from outside.

"Look here, Finch," came Piers's voice, "can you let me have a
cigarette?"

"No," growled Finch, "haven't got any up here."

"The kid says you have."

"He's a little liar."

"Well, look here, I'd like to speak to you a minute."

"Sorry. I can't just now. I'm busy."

"Is anything wrong? The kid says you didn't seem very well when he was
up before."

"Let me alone!" roared Finch, and he showed, furthermore, that the
example he had had before him in the matter of swearing had not been
entirely lost.

When they had gone he looked down at the carnation. He had flattened it
against the door.... He looked at his wrist-watch.... The fracas had
done one thing for him, at any rate. It had made time fly.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The Vaughans were the first to arrive: Meggie, a little plumper, a
little more exuberantly the wife and mother; Maurice, a trifle greyer,
his masculinity a trifle more muffled. She clasped Finch to her. Oh, the
lovely depth of that bosom! He was never taken to it, but he wished he
might burrow into its tender depths and remain for ever enfolded there.
She gave him three kisses on the mouth, and put a packet into his hand.
"With _our_ love and many, many good wishes." Wake crowded up beside him
to see. It was a white evening scarf of heavy silk. "Oh, thanks," Finch
murmured; and Maurice shook him by the hand.

Maurice had been warned on the way by his wife not to make any reference
to Finch's inheritance, but he could not resist saying:

"Well, enjoy it while you're young!" And his glance did not indicate the
scarf.

Meg caressed Wakefield, remarked his delicate looks, and went up to
Alayne's room to lay off her things. The men stood about with the
conciliatory air worn by them in the presence of female antagonisms.
They knew that Meggie and Alayne disliked one another, that there was no
love lost between Meggie and Pheasant. They would be glad when other
guests arrived.

They soon arrived in a stream. The Fennels: the rector, thick-set,
beaming, his hair and beard tidier than was usual even on Sundays;
George, resembling him; Mrs. Fennell, long-backed, hatchet-faced, with
eyes always searching for a vacant seat into which she might drop; Tom
resembling her. Next, the two Miss Laceys, whose late father had been a
retired Admiral, and the elder of whom had been after Nicholas
forty-seven years ago. After these Miss Pink, the organist, prematurely
aged by being rushed, year in and year out, through the hymns and psalms
by the combined impetuosity of the Whiteoaks at a speed which she
thought little short of blasphemous. She was in a flurry at exposing her
shoulders in a seldom worn evening gown, and had veiled them by a scarf,
though they were, in truth, the best part of her. These were the old,
old friends and neighbours.

Considerably later, and from Town, came the Leighs. They were mere
acquaintances to the rest of the family, but Finch thought of Arthur
Leigh as his best friend. Mother and daughter in their sheathlike gowns
of delicate green had the appearance of sisters. He could scarcely wait
to have Arthur alone that he might tell him of his contemplated trip,
with all the more eagerness because Arthur himself had spoken of
spending that summer in England.

The party was now complete except for two people. These were neighbours,
living in a small, rather isolated house, but comparative strangers.
About a year and a half before, Antoine Lebraux had brought his wife and
daughter from Quebec and acquired this place with the object of going
into the breeding of silver foxes. He had been in the Civil Service,
and, his health having broken down, he was advised to turn to an outdoor
life. His wife, who had relations in Upper Canada, wished to be near
them, and, within fifty miles of a brother, she had discovered this
small and neglected property for sale. Lebraux, with the enthusiasm of
his race, had thrown himself heart and soul into the new life. Reliable
parent foxes had been bought, and he had read every book obtainable on
the subject of their breeding and care.

Renny had met and liked him. He had ridden over frequently to see how
the foxes were progressing. The first litters were admirable. The change
of climate had done Lebraux good, and his malady had shown signs of
improvement. But good luck did not follow in good luck's train. His most
valuable vixen had somehow dug her way out and was never seen again. The
later litters were weakly, a vixen died, then, when fresh stock had been
bought in the hope of raising the stamina, thieves had broken in and
stolen the best of them. The bodies of the foxes had been found less
than a mile away, stripped of their pelts. All this told on the health
of Lebraux. He had become so irritable that Renny's heart had gone out
to his wife and daughter. When Lebraux had at last been confined to the
house he had begged Renny to come to him as often as possible. He could
forget his sense of disappointment, of failure, of impending disaster in
Renny's presence. "I like you!" he had often exclaimed. "I like you to
be near me. You and I have an appreciation of the fine and sensitive
things of life." Renny had never been told this before, and it pleased
him. And so they had talked of horses and foxes and women.

Lebraux had taken to drinking brandy. He had had uncontrollable
outbreaks of despair, during which he would threaten to do away with
himself. Only the presence of Renny would calm him. Often Mrs. Lebraux
had sent her young daughter all the way to Jalna with a note for Renny,
begging him to go to her help. When, in January, Lebraux had died, Renny
had spent half his time in the house. Her brother had kept out of the
way as much as possible, for he shirked the responsibility that he felt
was moving towards him.

It had been Renny's idea to invite the mother and daughter, an idea that
had not met with much favour from the rest of the family. Mrs. Lebraux
had called on Alayne soon after her marriage. The call had been
returned, and there had been an end to intimacy. Alayne had felt pity
and, at the same time, had been repelled by the family. The uncles had
agreed with her that they were strange people. "Not at all the sort of
people who _used_ to settle here." Meggie had not called. Piers was
contemptuous of Lebraux, his failures and, what Piers considered, his
spinelessness. He made fun of Mrs. Lebraux's thick yellow hair, that was
turning dark in streaks, her round, light-lashed eyes, and red hands.
But Renny had his way. The poor woman had never been anywhere since her
husband's death, and the little girl would keep Wake in countenance.

If Mrs. Leigh and Ada had looked like sisters as they entered the
drawing-room, Mrs. Lebraux and little Pauline seemed of no relation to
each other. She had a blonde, hardy, wholesome look, was the daughter of
a Newfoundlander who had made a good deal of money in the fisheries, and
somehow lost it, and she resembled him. Pauline was like Lebraux, a
thin, dark child of fifteen, in white, with the promise of some beauty.
Her parents had met on the great toboggan slide by the Chateau
Frontenac, and had precipitately slid into matrimony.

It was an odd, mixed party, Alayne thought, as they filed in to dinner,
but it was the first time she had entertained since her marriage, and
she was rather wrought up over it, fearful lest all should not go well.
But she need not have had any apprehension on that score. Where there
were Whiteoaks gathered there was no danger of dullness. The family was
all talking at once, as a garden of hardy flowers might burst into
vigorous bloom at the first encouragement of the sun. A festive
occasion, the prospect of a good dinner with plenty to drink with it,
was sun enough for them. Ernest took in Mrs. Leigh; Nicholas, his old
flame, Miss Lacey; Vaughan, Mrs. Fennel; Finch, Ada Leigh; Renny, Mrs.
Lebraux, with the others distributing as congenially as possible down to
the two youngest, who came last, smiling gravely at each other, she half
a head taller than he.

Whatever Mrs. Wragge's faults might be, it would never be said of her
that she was not a good cook. Fowls, under her hand, shed their earthly
plumage and turned into glistening forms of celestial sweetness. Her
vegetables were drained at the critical moment, the pastry was light.
Only her pudding was heavy, and there was no pudding to-night. Wakefield
could scarcely credit his own senses when he saw all the best china and
silver on the table at once. Things that usually lived in cabinets,
behind glass, were now on the table looking as though they were used
every day. Several wine-glasses were clustered at each place, even his
own and Pauline's.

"Have you ever been to anything like this before?" he asked her, trying
to feel not too important.

"No; isn't it lovely?" She smiled, and he thought how prettily her lip
curled from her little white teeth. He noticed her long white hands,
then stared at her mother across the table.

"You don't look a bit like your mother," he remarked, settling his chin
above his Eton collar.

"No, I look like my daddy." She stopped eating, and withdrew into
herself, a look of sad remoteness shadowing her small face.

"_My_ father," he observed, looking hard at her, "died before I was
born."

She was startled into regarding him with an almost fearful interest.
"Did he really? I didn't know they _could_. I always thought you had to
have both father and mother when you were born."

"I didn't. My father was dead and my mother died _when_ I was born."

She breathed--"How awful for you!"

He agreed.

"Yes," he said. "I'm what is called a posthumous child. I think it has
preyed on my mind. I think it is what has made me so delicate. I'm not
able to go to school, you know. I go to Mr. Fennel for lessons, but I
haven't been for weeks because of the weather."

"I wish I could go to him, too. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

He looked dubious.

"Yes ... but you're a Catholic, aren't you?"

She nodded. "But mother isn't. I don't believe she'd mind. Do you think
he'd have me?"

"Well, he might. If you'd promise not to try to convert me or anything.
He'd not like to risk that."

"Oh, I'd promise!"

Around the table conversation flowed easily. Alayne perhaps was less at
ease than the others. She was so anxious that things should go well,
especially because of the Leighs. Rags was a constant irritation to her.
His shabby trigness, his air of anxiety over the two hired maids, his
bending over Renny to whisper to him with an expression of portentous
significance. And why did Renny grin up at him in that way? She did wish
that Renny wouldn't talk to Rags at meal-time. Rags seemed always to be
hovering behind his chair like an evil genius, and Renny never looked
more like his grandmother than when he was grinning up at Rags. What was
he saying to that Mrs. Lebraux? She strained her ears to catch the
words.

He was saying--"Well, I'll be very grateful if you will let me have the
use of your stable. I could keep two horses there. We're terribly short
of room, as it is."

Mr. Fennel, on the other side of Mrs. Lebraux, joined in. "I am glad to
hear that you are staying on in your house, Mrs. Lebraux. I do hope you
are comfortable."

She turned her round pale-lashed eyes on him. "Comfortable! No, I'm not
very comfortable. But I'm getting along somehow----"

Then Ernest's musical voice came to Alayne. He was saying to Mrs. Leigh:

"Yes, I'm doing a work on Shakespeare. I've been working on it for many
years now. One can't hurry with that sort of thing. But I do feel that
the result will be ..."

Nicholas was booming to his old flame, Miss Lacey:

"He's never talked since she died. Isn't it extraordinary? There he sits
on his perch, in her room, just brooding."

Then came Meg's voice, as she claimed Mr. Fennel's attention. "You'd
never believe the things she does and says. Sometimes she quite
frightens me. Only this morning, she said--'Mummy, I want to see God!'"

Pheasant and Arthur Leigh were laughing together. She was saying--"But,
truly, I know a man who saw a two-headed foal ..."

Finch's head was inclined toward Ada Leigh. Alayne caught just a snatch:
"Oh, I dare say I'll travel round a bit. You can't stick in one place
forever."

How the Whiteoaks loved to talk, she thought. From all about her their
voices came, and yet their plates were the first to be swept clean of
each course. They seldom asked a question. They took their world as they
found it, without curiosity. Only Piers and Miss Pink, whom he had taken
in, did not trouble to speak, but were devoting themselves to the
business of eating and drinking. She lived alone, and her great economy
was food. Now she had allowed her gauze scarf to slide from her
shoulders, for even it had seemed to impede her progress toward
repletion. Piers was drinking a good deal. His lips were taking on that
sweet, mysterious curve they had when he was becoming oblivious of his
surroundings, and only wished to be left alone that he might give his
full attention to the pleasant phenomenon that was taking place inside
him.

There was champagne. Nicholas had seen to that. Rags could not have been
more solemn about the drawing of the corks if he had bought and paid for
it out of his own savings. Something intangible but vital drew them all
nearer each other. The fingers of their spirits touched.

Mr. Fennel rose, glass in hand, to propose Finch's health. Finch saw it
coming, and drooped still closer to Ada Leigh for support. His hour had
struck. He was twenty-one and Mr. Fennel was going to propose his
health.

The confusion of voices sank into a gentle sigh. All eyes, made brighter
or dreamier by wine, were turned on the Rector. All eyes, with the
exception of Piers's, which were looking into a tranced and pleasing
space. Mr. Fennel said:

"What I am about to do is very agreeable to me. That is to propose the
health of a member of this household who to-day has reached the estate
of manhood. It is not easy for me to believe this, because it seems only
a few years ago since I held him in my arms at the font and baptized him
in the church his grandfather had built. His grandfather had built the
church in what was at that time a sparsely settled community. He
established there the religion of his fathers. And his descendants have
never failed in their support of that church. At Jalna he established a
family which preserves to-day the traditions of a fine old English
family, as few families do in these times of standardisation and
irreverence for tradition.... The memory of his devoted wife--whose
presence I seem to feel among us to-night--will long remain fresh in the
minds of all who knew her. Her faults--for none of us are perfect--were
far outshone by her virtues.... This member of her family who has just
attained the age of twenty-one--an age that seems quite unbelievably
fresh and glowing to me--has been the companion of my sons all his life.
With them he has run in and out of the Rectory a thousand times on the
mysterious quests of boyhood. In their room they have held with him
innumerable conferences on the mysterious business of youth. He has
enlivened many an evening for us with his music. We have known him in
many moods, but none of us have ever known him to do a cruel or shabby
thing. I wish him well from the bottom of my heart. I know you will all
join me in this. I give you the toast--Finch Whiteoak!"

Mr. Fennel sat down with the unruffled air of a man who had just as lief
make a speech as not.

Finch crouched between Ada Leigh and his sister-in-law Alayne with the
air of a man to whom the making of a speech would be a task of appalling
torture. The heads of those about him swam toward him goggle-eyed like
goldfish in a round glass bowl. There was clapping of hands, glasses
clinked. The glass of the bowl shivered into splinters, and Finch was
left gasping, looking piteously like a stranded goldfish himself, trying
to rise to his feet.

Ada Leigh smiled soft encouragement. She said--"It will be all right ...
just anything that comes into your head ... now!" She touched his arm
with an impelling gesture.

Renny's voice came down the table, metallic and commanding. "Up you get,
Finch!" and others added jovially--"Speech, speech!"

But it was Alayne who got him to his feet. Her father and her
grandfathers had been New England professors, monitors of the young. Out
of the background of their authority, her blue grey eyes looked
dominantly into his, saying--"Rise and give tongue!" Her fingers clutched
his under the tablecloth so tightly that it hurt. He twisted his own
about them as he spoke.

How different this was from doing a part in a play! Then, in velvet
cloak or in vagabond tatters, he could abandon himself to the portrayal
of another's moods. But now he was simply his naked self, and a dozen
words were harder to get out than a torrent of talk on the stage. He
heard his voice with a curious kind of croak in it.

"It's frightfully good of you--all. I never had such nice things said
about me before ... in all my life ... and I don't quite know what to do
about it. Mr. Fennel and Mrs. Fennel couldn't possibly have been kinder
to me if I'd been their own son ... and, of course, everyone present ...
has been the same ..."

"Hear, hear," said Piers, without moving his lips.

"I can't tell you how much I am enjoying ... this occasion," he
continued, looking the picture of despair. "If I should live to be as
old as my grandmother----"

"You'll never do it," interrupted Piers, without any appearance of
having spoken.

Renny threw Piers a fiery look down the table.

"I'd never forget this dinner ... and ... I do most heartily--" here his
voice broke--"thank you. I hope no one here will ever be sorry that ...
sorry that ..." Good Lord, what was he about to say? Sorry that _what_?
Oh, yes, sorry that Gran had left him her money--but he couldn't say
that--it would be horrible--but what could he say?--"Hope no one here will
ever live to be sorry--" he stammered, and sought the ruddy sunrise of
Piers's face for inspiration--"be sorry----"

"That we let you live till you were twenty-one," supplied Piers without
seeming to utter a word.

There was a burst of hilarious applause. The hero of the occasion sat
down.

He took a gulp of champagne.

"You did splendidly," whispered Ada Leigh, and Alayne squeezed his
fingers before she uncurled hers from them. He was flushed, and happily
conscious that he might have done worse. He had been delighted at the
burst of applause and laughter, though he could not quite recall what he
had said that was so witty.

After the speeches voices rose to a babble. The faces about the table
were changed to a noticeable degree. Those which were ordinarily
vivacious became dreamy, those which were usually somewhat stolid were
transfigured into liveliness. The two maids stood together motionless
now, like black-and-white drawings of maids, unbelievably trig. Rags
drifted ceaselessly around the table refilling glasses, the creator, it
seemed, of this animation, these changes of expression, this babble.
Ernest had got to the point of telling Mrs. Leigh of his life in old
London, the times he and Nicholas had had. Nicholas had reached the
point of intimating to Miss Lacey, by look rather than by word, that he
wished he and she might have been joined together in wedlock, rather
than he and that other from whom he was divorced. Renny and Mrs. Lebraux
were engaged in a low, earnest conversation which excluded the existence
of all others. Piers had picked up Miss Pink's gauze scarf from the
floor where it had fallen and laid it about his own shoulders. He, only,
did not talk, but his lips were curved in that same enigmatic, Mona Lisa
smile.

The rugs had been taken up in the drawing-room and hall and the floor
waxed, but it was late before anyone suggested that they dance. It was
George Fennel who sat down at the piano, very square, very upright, his
hands drawing insidious sweetness from the keys. The latest dances from
the world of jazz were tossed by George as invitation to this mixed
company, some of whom still danced in the style of forty years ago. And
how gallantly they responded to the invitation! They thought it "queer
stuff--very modern, you know--and not at all easy to keep step with." But
somehow they contrived to do it, the couples moving in small circles,
conversing lightly and gaily all the while. Nicholas and Ernest with the
two Miss Laceys, with whom they had danced the quadrille, the polka, and
the schottische on this very floor when they were young men and girls.
Mr. Fennel had Pheasant tightly clasped to him, his beard, now and
again, tickling her bare shoulder. Like a captive bird she cast wistful
glances at her mate, wishing she might fly down the room with him, in
long graceful strides, their bodies as one. And there he was dancing
with Miss Pink, who was quite old enough to be his mother!

The younger men had no flowers of speech to offer to their partners. Up
and down the drawing-room, in and out of the hall, they moved, their
faces as void of expression as a clean slate, their very souls set in
the mould of jazz.

Miss Pink had been afraid she could not do it. But when once Piers had
got hold of her she found that she could, and not only that, but she
wished she might go on doing it for ever. As for Piers, he scarcely knew
whom he was dancing with--old or young, skilful or amateurish, it did not
signify. She had been at hand when his forceful body had responded to
the inexorable call of the dance.

Alayne was dancing with graceful Arthur Leigh. Wakefield had almost more
than he could cope with in Meggie's solid frame. Meg had an eye on
Maurice and Mrs. Leigh, who seemed to her to be dancing altogether too
well.

Finch had been going to ask Ada Leigh to dance, but had turned away as
he saw Tom Fennel loping towards her. He must not be selfish at his own
party. With whom would he dance then? He looked rather vaguely about the
room. There was Mrs. Fennel in a comfortable chair near the fire, with a
dish of crystallised fruit beside her. And, in the farthest corner, on
the settee, was Mrs. Lebraux in her black dress, with Renny keeping her
company, his back half-turned to the dancers. And staring into the
cabinet of curios from India was the Lebraux child, her skirt too short,
her legs too long, and the back of her head looking as though it needed
combing. Her hair stuck out in thick black tufts, giving her an odd,
elfin look. He went to her and said:

"Would you like to dance, Pauline?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder and shook her head.

"Can you dance?" He felt a stirring of curiosity about her.

Her gaze had returned to the cabinet again, but she answered in a low
voice:

"Yes. But I don't think I should. Mother isn't."

"I see. But you're such a kid I don't think she'd mind. Shall I ask
her?"

She turned and looked at him searchingly, as though wondering whether or
no she should like to dance with him. Then she went sedately to her
mother and bent over her.

She came back smiling and put her hand into Finch's.

"It's all right. Both Mother and Mr. Whiteoak say to dance." Her face
lit up and she moved her shoulders as though eager to begin.

She was so thin that she felt nothing more than a wand in Finch's arms,
yet there was a wild strength in her movements. He thought she was like
a little breeze-blown boat tugging at its anchor. The music was swift,
even feverish, for this second dance, but not swift enough for her. He
bent to look into her face. He had scarcely seen her, yet he had the
impression of beauty. He saw the thick hair above the low forehead, with
its pencilled brows, the eyelids that had a foreign look, the
half-closed eyes, of which he could not make out the colour, the
childish nose, the wide, rather thin-lipped mouth with its upward curve
at the corners, the little white chin, the long, graceful neck. He could
not tell where the beauty was, but he was satisfied that it was there or
would be there.

"Who taught you to dance?" he asked.

"Oh, I had lessons in Quebec. Daddy and I used to dance a lot together.
I can dance alone too. Solo dances, you know."

"How splendid! I wish you'd dance one to-night."

"Oh, no, I couldn't!"

"Not to please me? It's my birthday, you know."

"I couldn't _possibly_!" There was a note of hurt in her voice.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But perhaps some other time you will. You're
going to stay on here, aren't you?"

"Yes--if we can make it pay."

"The fox-farming, you mean?"

"Yes. And we may go into poultry, too."

"Aren't you afraid the foxes will eat the poultry?"

"That shows how much you know about it! They're kept _absolutely_
separate."

"It will mean a lot of work."

"We don't mind that, if only we can make it pay." Her slender body
seemed to tighten with resolve. She swayed and dipped and turned like a
bird, he thought. And she had a hard time before her, he was afraid. He
would like to help them if he only knew how to go about it. This having
of so much money opened up new channels to one, gave one a troubling
sense of responsibility toward one's fellows.

"Mother and I do all the housework," she was saying--"dish-washing,
sweeping, and everything. She does outdoor work too. She's awfully
strong."

"Do you really?" He was astonished, for he had never seen his sister do
anything but take care of herself; and Alayne and Pheasant were very
much the same, except that Pheasant looked after Mooey, and that none
too well, he thought.

He saw Ada Leigh watching them, and he wondered what she thought of the
child. When, at last, they danced together, and he had reproached her,
as he had a feeling she wanted him to do, for having eluded him, he
asked her.

"I could not help being amused by the pair of you," she answered; "you
looked so odd together."

"Did we?" He was a little nettled. "Well, I suppose I look odd at any
time."

She gave him one of her challenging looks. "Not at all! You don't look
odd dancing with me, I'm very sure. But that girl is almost ridiculous,
with her hair and her terrifically long, thin legs. And that sort of
do-or-die look."

"Well, she may look queer dancing, but it's like heaven to dance with
her!"

"I'm so glad, because one gets so little of heaven here on earth,
doesn't one?"

Finch observed solemnly--"I'm afraid she's going to be one of those women
that other women don't like."

"Oh I don't think you need worry about that."

"I'm not worrying. Why should I worry about it?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. But you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"All I feel is a great pity for her and her mother. They've had a hard
time, and, I'm afraid, they'll have a harder."

"What a _strange-looking_ woman Mrs. Lebraux is!"

"Yes, rather. Piers calls her 'Dirty-locks----' Lord, I shouldn't have
told you that! But her hair is rather queer, and he has a brutal way of
putting things. I notice that women don't like her either."

"I do," said Ada. "I love her."

"For heaven's sake! Why?"

"Because she lets you alone and devotes herself to your brother."

"But she's years and years older than I am."

"How clever of you to have found that out! I should have expected you to
insist that she was younger, you're so chivalrous."

"And you're so detestable!"

They stopped dancing. They were in the dark end of the hall, alone. They
clung to each other a moment, motionless. Then he took her in his arms
and kissed her again and again on the mouth. She lay there acquiescent,
the perfume of her going through all his nerves as the champagne had.
She was like champagne, cool, softly stinging, potent to the senses.

They began to dance again as smoothly as though they had never lost a
beat, when Renny, with the Little Lebraux, glided into the hall. It
seemed to Finch that Renny cast a sharp look at Ada, as though he
suspected her of something, and he had a curious feeling that Ada had
rather have been kissed by Renny than by him, even though she had been
more than acquiescent, had kissed him back. Pauline's lips were parted
in a joyful smile, showing her very white teeth; she clutched Renny's
sleeve in one thin white hand. Her expression was that of a young
creature that has been unhappy far too long, and snatches at some sudden
pleasure with almost fierce desire.

She and her mother left early. Then the Leighs, with a long motor ride
before them. Somehow or other the Fennels packed the Miss Lacey's and
Miss Pink into their car. The Vaughans were the last to go.

"And I really don't care very much about trusting myself to him in a
car, the way he is," Meg said.

Renny looked his brother-in-law over.

"He'll be all right after a breath of fresh air," he assured her. "I'll
open the windows on him."

Maurice watched this move for his revivification with interest. As soon
as the window was opened he started the car, and it sped across the
lawn, scraping the end of an ice-covered garden seat, and on three
wheels gained the drive.

Nicholas was declaiming in the drawing-room.

"I might never have had gout in my life, I was so free from it to-night.
As lively as a three-year-old."

"And I," said Ernest, "never thought of my dinner again. And I ate
everything!"

"It's remarkable what exhilaration does."

"If only there is no evil reaction!"

"Mrs. Leigh," declared Nicholas, "is the prettiest woman of her age I
have seen in years."

"But that daughter of hers!" cried Pheasant. "I can't stand her. She
takes care to let you know that her gown comes from Paris."

"Yes," agreed Alayne; "and she referred to London as 'my London!'"

"Such swank!"

"Still," protested Ernest, balancing himself on the balls of his feet,
"they are a charming family, the Leighs. And really intellectual."

"I don't agree," said Alayne. "To me, they seem very superficial."

"To me, too!" cried Pheasant.

Finch interrupted, hurt for his friend's sake. "Not Arthur. Arthur's
absolutely sound."

"I'd like to give him a sound hiding," observed Renny, lighting his
pipe, "and knock some of the effeminacy out of him."

"Listen to the he-man!" exclaimed Pheasant.

Renny took her by the nape and rumpled her hair into a brown crest.

"Mrs. Leigh," said Ernest, "was greatly interested in my annotation of
Shakespeare."

His two nieces by marriage looked at him pityingly.

The two young women went, as with one impulse, to the mirror above the
mantel that had reflected so many of the scenes at Jalna, and examined
themselves in the glass. The five men regarded their backs and the
reflection of their faces with incurious interest. They were interested,
as always, in this manifestation of sex, but they knew them too well to
feel the sting of curiosity.

Alayne said, turning round to them:

"It was rather a nuisance Mrs. Lebraux not dancing. It kept one of the
best dancers always at her side entertaining her."

Neither Nicholas nor Ernest had sat by Mrs. Lebraux, consequently they
felt a little irritated by this remark. Ernest said:

"I talked to her for a moment, but she scarcely took the trouble to
answer. I can't say I admire her."

"I shouldn't have minded sitting by her for a bit," said Nicholas, "but
she seemed not to lack attention." He looked at Renny.

Renny looked back. "Someone had to be decent to the poor woman. The
girls were awfully cool to her."

"I scarcely know her," said Alayne.

"That is no reason why you should be cool to her," returned Renny.

"She's one of those women," asserted Pheasant, sagaciously--"who don't
care a bit about other women. She's simply _mad_ about men!"

"How unjust you are," said Renny. "She's been in great trouble. She only
liked to talk to me because she is used to me--I've been a friend of
Lebraux."

Piers said--"I shouldn't mind the looks of her so much, if only she'd
darken her eyelashes and touch her hair up so it would be all one
colour."

Renny turned on him angrily. "She'd never do anything to her hair. She's
not that sort. She never thinks of her personal appearance."

His wife and his sister-in-law looked at him scornfully.

"Well, she spent about ten minutes on her face in the dressing-room!"
cried Pheasant.

"Dear me," said Ernest, "what was she doing to it?"

"Wiping her tears away," suggested Piers.

"Tears!" scoffed Pheasant. "Mrs. Patch, who helped nurse Mr. Lebraux,
told Mrs. Wragge that they quarrelled half the time and the other half
they didn't speak."

"You've little to do," said Renny, "to be gossiping with the servants
about Mrs. Lebraux."

"I wasn't gossiping. She just told me. And besides, you often repeat
things that Rags told you."

The master of Jalna gripped his pipe and drew back his lips from his
teeth. He could think of nothing to say, so he glared at her.

"She looks healthy," said Nicholas.

"Such crude health lacks charm for me," said Ernest.

"Renny only danced once this evening," observed Pheasant, "and that was
with her child."

"I had hoped," said Alayne slowly, "that no one had noticed that."

"Heigho!" said Piers, in an endeavour to imitate his grandmother. "I
want something more to eat. I want it right away."

His Uncle Ernest looked at him reprovingly. "Is it possible, Piers, that
you are mimicking my mother?"

"Oh, no," answered Piers, innocently. "Not consciously, at any rate. But
I was thinking, just a moment ago, how much she would have enjoyed
to-night, and I suppose the thought of her stayed in my head."

Ernest smiled at him. No one could help it, with his face so pink and
that enigmatic smile on his lips. He led the way to the dining-room and
got a decanter of whiskey and a siphon of soda water from the sideboard.
He sat down by the table, which had been cleared and reduced to its
normal size. Nicholas, Ernest, and Finch followed him. Pheasant stood a
moment in the doorway before going to bed. She said:

"I do think it was rather a shame, Piers, the way you whirled poor
little Miss Pink around. She looked positively dazed."

"You're just jealous of her," said Piers.

She ran over to him and bent her head to his ear.

"Don't be silly, darling! And please, please, don't drink much more!
It's bad enough for me to see my father going home in the state he did
without seeing my husband come to bed in another...."

"Another what?" he mumbled against her cheek.

"Another state. Of intoxication, of course."

"All right, little 'un. Run along now."

Renny had discovered Wakefield sound asleep on the settee in the
drawing-room and had carried him up to bed.

Alayne had followed, angry with herself for being irritated by the sight
of the child's legs dangling, his arm tightly around Renny's neck.

She went straight to her own room. She felt definitely unhappy, tired in
spirit yet restless in body. She fidgeted about the room, exposing, with
a touch of self-pity, her bare arms and shoulders to its chill air. How
often during the day she had looked forward to dancing with Renny that
evening! And he had danced only once, and then with a child. Then, when
the guests were gone, he had taken on that protective tone about Mrs.
Lebraux. Just because she had chosen to lean on him! And there was
Wakefield to be carried to bed, who should have been sent there hours
ago.... She heard Mooey whining in the next room as Pheasant took him
up.... She heard Wakefield's voice raised complainingly in Renny's
room.... Children were too much in evidence in this household....

She was getting cold, yet she could not go to bed. She thought she would
go to Pheasant's room and talk to her for a little.... Really, Mrs.
Lebraux was a strange-looking woman ... something animal about her ...
lucky for the child that she had taken after the father.... She went
into the passage, but, instead of going to Pheasant's door, she went to
Renny's. She laid her two hands against the panels, and stood motionless
there.

Very soon Renny came out, drawing the support of the door from her. But
she still retained her posture, and stood before him, hands raised as
though in wonder. His brows flew up.

"Well--you here, Alayne!"

He took her hands and drew them together at the back of his neck,
looking with solicitude down into her face.

"Tired, old girl?"

She nodded her head several times, frowning and pushing out her lips.
Never during her married life with Eden had she shown him this mood of
childish petulance. In truth, she had not in all her life shown it to
anyone but Renny: had not known it was in her to frown and pout, and be
at once both angry and clinging, and, if she could have seen the
expression of her own face at this moment, she would have felt
mortified, angry with herself.

He kissed her. "Were you long at the door? Why didn't you come in?"

"Not very long.... I didn't want to. What was the good?"

"What do you want?"

"You."

"Well, you've got me, haven't you?"

"You're going downstairs to the others."

"Not if you don't want me to."

"Yes, do go, please! I don't want you to stay with me." She tried to
push him from her.

"Yes, you do!" He tightened his arms about her.

"Well, I don't see why I should. I'm not at all necessary to you."

"What rot you talk!"

"How am I necessary, then?"

"You know without my telling you."

"You will make me hate you!"

"Why should women always think of only one thing!"

"I suppose they know the truth."

"My dear child, you make me tired!"

"I know I do." Her voice broke.

He picked her up, as he had picked up Wakefield, and carried her into
her room. It was lit only by moonlight. The new mauve silk bedspread
caught and held the light like a dreaming pool in a wood. The moon was
sinking.

Its last rays were shining into the dining-room too. Its light was
enough for the business they had in hand there. Nicholas, unmindful of
gout, had given himself up to it. Ernest unmindful of indigestion, had
given himself up to it. Piers, forgetful of wifely admonition, had given
himself up to it. Finch, mindful of his new estate, entered heart and
soul into it. The decanter and the siphon, with amber and cold white
lights in their respective parts, moved slowly around the table. The
moonlight blotted age out of two faces and stamped age into two, so that
the quartette appeared to be all of one age, and that was ageless.

Finch said: "I wish one of you would tell me what it was I said that was
so funny. They were making such a row when I sat down that it knocked it
clean out of my head."

"I can't remember," answered Nicholas, "but I know it was damned witty.
In fact, I've never heard a better after-dinner speech."

"Nor I," agreed Ernest. "Just the right amount of sentiment mixed with
real wit. It's a special talent in itself, this after-dinner speaking."

"I thought the Rector spoke very well," said Finch judicially.

"Yes, he spoke very well. But you were better. I only wish I could
remember just what it was you said at the last."

"Something about the joy of living," suggested Piers.

"Well, that's not very new," said Finch, rather disappointed.

"Seems to be new to you!"

"Life," said Nicholas, "is experience."

"I don't agree," said Ernest. "I think life is work."

Finch said gravely--"I suppose you have all heard of my decision"--he
rolled the words "my decision" on his tongue--"my decision not to go on
with my University course."

"It would have been better," said Ernest, "if you had made up your mind
to go to England and take a university course there."

"No, no," interrupted his brother, "the boy's quite right. He knows what
he's fitted for. And I say that he is a musical genius." His eyes,
glittering strangely in the moonlight, were fixed on Finch.

"I'm so glad you think so, Uncle Nick! And you thought my speech was all
right, didn't you?"

"Absolutely. From the moment you rose to your feet, you were, as the
Italians say, _pere bene_."

"Meaning," said Piers, "full of beans."

"Exactly."

Finch half filled his glass with Black and White and aimed a squirt of
soda at it. "I think, just among ourselves, that I may say that my aim
is to live an unselfish life."

"You couldn't have a better," commended Ernest. "From my own experience
I know that bringing happiness to others brings happiness to oneself."

"What form," asked Nicholas, "is your unselfishness going to take?"

"I should suggest," said Piers, "making a pool of it."

Finch turned toward him somewhat truculently. "What do you mean?--a pool
of it?"

Piers pondered a moment, and then said: "Your unselfishness, of course.
Sunshine idea. A brighter Jalna."

"Don't be silly," said Finch. "I'm in dead earnest. I want to do
something for each one of you, and that's a fact."

"Say it in writing," put in Piers.

"My word is as good as----"

"Of course it is," said Nicholas. "We all know it is."

Finch proceeded--"I'm very glad that Renny hasn't joined us, because he
never seems to see eye to eye with me in anything."

"Where is he?" asked Ernest. "I hadn't missed him before. Indeed I quite
thought he was here." He peered about the room.

"Been sent to bed," said Piers; "he was a naughty boy, poor fellow!"

Finch said--"Uncle Nick and Uncle Ernie, if I were to invite you to come
on a trip with me to England at my expense, would you accept?"

"Delighted to accept," answered Nicholas instantly.

Ernest reached across the table and took Finch's hand and shook it.
"Dear boy--dear boy--" was all he could say.

"Me, too!" said Piers. "What are you going to do for me?"

"What should you choose?"

"Give me time. Let me sleep on it."

"It's settled then, is it? You two are coming with me to visit Aunt
Augusta?"

Ernest squeezed the hand he held, the hour, his condition, the
invitation, filling him with an almost overwhelming emotion. Nicholas
accepted airily, as though he were bestowing a favour.

"I will take you to some of my old haunts in London," he promised,
straightening his shoulders and drawing his chin against his collar.

Both uncles then began to talk about the years they had spent in
England, repeating, at first, incidents that the nephews had heard
before, but, as the night drew on, and as the decanter emptied, drawing
from remote places in their memories events unrecalled in years, like
forgotten birds' nests dragged forth from an old belfry, or rusty
anchors drawn up from the deep.

Some of these memories were disgraceful, and, in the telling of them,
the two elders became more and more youthful, breaking into sudden
uncontrolled laughter, their speech falling into the catch-words of
their day. The young men, on the contrary, grew graver and more judicial
with each glass, looking as though they did not quite approve of the
levity of the others, Finch even going to the length once of giving some
sound advice. In order that he might hurt no one's feelings he addressed
the advice to the siphon in a kind of chant, and when no one gave any
heed to him he shed a few unnoticed tears.

But, when the moment came when sing they must, he was ready. Ernest, who
loved very old songs, ballads, madrigals, and the like, began "Sumer is
acumen in," in his still excellent voice. A tenor, a lusty barytone, and
a bass joined in with:

      Loudly sing, cuckoo!
    Grows the seed, and blows the mead,
      And grows the wood anew,
        Sing cuckoo!
    The ewe is bleating for her lamb;
      Lows for her calf the cow.

The bleating and the lowing, so loud and mellow, brought a fifth member
of the family on the scene. This was Renny, clad in dressing-gown and
slippers. He stared at the revellers with ironical amusement.

"Well," he said, "you're a lovely looking lot!"

The moon was gone, and the dawn creeping in showed them wan and
dishevelled in their evening clothes.

"You'll wake the women and the kids," he said. "They've been asleep for
hours. Don't you think you've had enough?"

"I've made serious decision," said Finch.

"What?"

"To go to bed."




                                   V


                             THE DEPARTURE

To Ernest it seemed positively portentous that Sasha should die just
before his departure for England. It was as though she had comprehended
what the state of his mind must be at the thought of parting from her.
She was fourteen years old, and though she seemed to be in perfect
health she required certain luxuries, certain attentions, to keep her
so. On whom could Ernest have depended to care for her? Alayne had
promised, but her attitude towards all animals was detached. Pheasant
might have done very well, but, there was Mooey, always at hand to lift
her up by the wrong part or to roll on her as she slept before the fire.
That left a choice among Wakefield, the Wragges, and Bessie the
kitchen-maid. Ernest shivered before the choice and almost felt that he
should not go.

As he fondled her with concern he noticed the look of understanding in
her translucent amber eyes. She was standing on him, rhythmically
kneading his stomach with her forepaws, as she so often did. He fancied,
half-whimsically, that she was aware of his weak digestion and that she
held the belief that gentle massage, such as she gave him, would benefit
him. The benign expression she wore, when she kneaded him thus,
encouraged the belief. Now to the expression of benignity was added the
look of understanding.

The very next morning he had found her dead on his eiderdown. Curled up,
as though sleeping, with a look of blissful peace--but dead. It was as
though she had not been able to bear the anxiety in his eyes and had
willed her spirit to depart in the night, setting him free from the
claims of love.

He had lain back again, pulled the covers over his head, and felt much
shaken. He remembered the morning she had had her last kitten on this
very bed. Just given one yell, as of triumph (for she was then old), and
had it, about six o'clock in the morning. He remembered when she had
been given to him by one of the Lacey girls fourteen years before, a
tiny golden ball of sportiveness. He had been rather bored then at the
thought of owning a kitten, had not much wanted her ... a dog had killed
her last kitten, and now she was gone ...

Everyone was sympathetic. They had dug a grave for her in the prettiest
corner of the garden, just where the old stone urn marked the spot.
Wakefield had filled the grave with marsh marigolds and had curled her
beautiful tail about her like a plume.

Ernest thought that Nicholas was very callous in the leaving of Nip.
Nip, to be sure, was not so fine fibred as Sasha, but still he merited
something more than the brief injunction thrown off by Nicholas at the
supper-table, on the night before departure--"For heaven's sake, look
after Nip!" That had been all. But it was Nick's way.

The two months just passed had flown for them all. The spring had been
backward, then forward. Their spirits had been up, then down. It was
such an upheaval. At first the mere stupendousness of it had been
exhilarating. But later, the thought of how they would be scattered was
like a hovering cloud. Augusta was in England; Eden was in France or
England--no one knew which; and soon Nicholas, Ernest, and Finch would be
on the ocean. They felt afresh the blank left by the death of Adeline.

When old steamer-trunks were carried down from the attic, rubbed up and
new labels written for them, all felt definitely that the moment was at
hand. New luggage was bought by Finch.

He had paid much more for it than he thought was necessary, but Arthur
Leigh had been with him when he bought it and had insisted on the best.
Finch was afraid of what Renny might say about such expenditure, but he
had said nothing. Since the day Finch had announced his intention of
going no more to the University, Renny, after his first outburst, had
been cold towards him. Piers, on the other hand, had been warmer than
ever before. But neither one would give him any advice about his money.
If he approached Renny with--"I say, George Fennel thinks I ought to
invest something in New York stocks and not be satisfied with such a low
rate of interest," Renny would shrug and say--"It's none of my business.
Do as you like with it." And he would turn away.

If he sounded Piers on the same subject, Piers would laugh and
say--"You're going to have the time of your young life, aren't you?" And,
if Finch persisted, he might add--"Well, George ought to know something
about it; he's in the business. I should think it would be rather fun to
speculate a bit."

Finch felt like a half-fledged bird suddenly pushed from the nest. After
being constantly supervised in his spending, ordered here and there,
sometimes tyrannised over, this sudden thrusting on him of
responsibility bewildered him, skimmed the cream of his pleasure in his
inheritance.

It was as though they had formed a conspiracy against him. His uncles
never referred to the money in his presence.

It was as though they said--"By hook or crook he got what we should have
had. Now let us see what he will do with it."

He had been almost frightened when the bank book had been put into his
hand, when he had interviewed the bank manager and been shown the list
of Gran's solid and conservative investments. But George had scoffed at
them. George had said that, aided by one versed in the fluctuations of
the market, Finch might with "speculation" double his fortune.

His head was in a whirl. It felt hot most of the time. He found that he
could not quiet his nerves by playing the piano. The virtue seemed to
have gone out of it. His spirit, like a captive bird that had been wont
to sing in captivity, now found itself baffled in its freedom, beating
itself against the walls of change.

Alayne realised something of his bewilderment, his loneliness. They had
several long talks. She felt anxiety at the thought of his giving up old
Adeline's safe investments for more spectacular ones, on the advice of
George Fennel. Yet, like Finch, her imagination was captured by the
thought that he might greatly increase his capital by careful
speculation. George had offered some tempting suggestions, and she had
heard from American friends who had made large sums of late. She wrote
to the head of the New York publishing house for which she had been a
reader, and asked his advice. His reply was an effort to stress
cautiousness, but he could not conceal jubilation over the result of his
own recent investments. In the same week came a letter from Miss Trent,
with whom she had shared an apartment in New York, telling joyously of
her own good luck. Renny and Piers, the two uncles, Maurice Vaughan,
were children, she thought, in matters of business. To be sure, the
first two exhibited a certain shrewdness in their own province, but she
had seen and heard so much of mismanagement at Jalna. There was no use
in consulting them. And added to their incompetence was their
disinclination even to speak of Finch's inheritance. If in some
unexpected way the subject of the grandmother's money came up, a feeling
of tension was at once apparent. They shied at the mention of it, as
skittish horses will shy at their own gatepost.

Alayne took her own small capital, left her by her father, out of the
Government stocks where it had been invested, and bought Universal Autos
with it.

When the stock began to rise steadily she could not resist telling Finch
what she had done, and, after that, it was impossible for her to
restrain him. But she made him tell Renny of the project. "Invest it as
you like," Renny said curtly. "I don't know anything about stocks. I've
never had anything to invest." Finch knew that it was not jealousy that
made him curt, but anger that he should have, at the instant of
attaining his majority, refused to return to the University. This prompt
refusal had symbolised to Renny the rejection by Finch of all further
authority, of supervision by him as the head of the clan.

How bitter Meg Vaughan would be, Alayne thought, if Finch were to lose
even a small amount of money by following her example. Meg had always
regarded her as an interloper, and to have some tangible injury to lay
at her door would give her real satisfaction. Finch must go, therefore,
and talk the matter over with the Vaughans. He was not loth to do this,
even though he was afraid they would discourage the investment. He was
in a condition of sensitiveness which made him desirous of discussing
his affairs with any one who was willing to do so. Himself and the
hundred thousand dollars that were his seemed to him of vast importance,
looming above all other subjects. Within an hour after it was decided
that he should go to Vaughanlands he was on his way.

There was no doubt about the arrival of spring, but as yet no
manifestation of it was visible in the landscape beyond an indefinite
swelling of tiny leaf-buds which gave the trees the appearance of being
seen behind a veil. Or, like love unrecognised, it had come, causing the
heart to turn, but as yet making little difference in the outward life.

It was midday, and the cup-like formation in which the house stood had
caught and held the sun. The windows were open to it, and certain
pillows, curtains, and draperies piled on the sills gave evidence that
spring-cleaning was in progress.

He found his sister covering a cushion with new cretonne in a design of
tulips and delphiniums. Her white hands moved softly above it like two
plump pigeons in a gay bit of garden. She wore a pink-and-white chintz
cap in Quakerish shape, which, she fancied, gave her the appearance of
being hard at work. Vaughan, who made no pretence of working, lay
stretched on a sofa reading a book on fox-breeding. Since Lebraux had
died, and there was a good chance that Mrs. Lebraux would give it up, he
had entertained thoughts of buying her stock himself.

"Well, Finch dear," exclaimed Meg, "so you thought you would come to see
me! It's about time. When I think how little I see of my brothers it
makes me quite sad." She held up her smooth face expectantly.

As Finch bent to kiss her his unruly forelock fell across her eyes. He
kissed her repeatedly, smelling the warm sweetness of her flesh and the
peculiar stinging odour of the new cretonne.

"How untidy you look!" she said, surveying him.

"I always do, don't I? Hello, Maurice! You seem pressed for time."

Vaughan answered good-naturedly--"I'm digging into the question of
fox-breeding a bit. I hear that Mrs. Lebraux is going to sell her
stock."

"I haven't heard that. I think she really has nothing else to do for a
living. Between the rent and the doctor's bills I guess she's had a
pretty hard time."

"I feel frightfully sorry for her," said Meg. "She's a thoroughly nice
woman. So sensible, and not spoiled a bit by having married a Frenchman.
And settling down here with her child as though she'd always been----"
She bit her thread with a certain sharp tooth she used for this purpose.
She had been quick to perceive that neither Pheasant nor Alayne liked
Mrs. Lebraux, and her own feeling toward her had warmed accordingly.

Her husband and her brother watched her with wonder and approval. Meggie
was perfect, mysterious, richly feminine, kind.

"That's a funny little girl of Mrs. Lebraux's," remarked Finch. "All
legs and hair."

"But how she can dance!" Meg's mood held warmth for daughter as for
mother. "You and she were like two fairies dancing together!"

"Thanks so much, Meggie. It's pleasant to hear that I look like a
fairy."

"Well, you do, dancing." She plumped the cushion with soft thumps, held
it up for admiration, then sank back to rest. "Now tell me just what is
going on at home? Getting ready for the trip, I suppose. To think that I
have never been across to the Old Country, and now you--at your age! Able
to travel as luxuriously as you like. And Uncle Nick and Uncle Ernest at
their age! And all their expenses paid. And here are Maurice and I with
the mortgage falling due!"

"Oh, well," growled Vaughan, "it can be renewed."

It was not an auspicious moment, Finch thought, for asking advice about
his own investments. He pulled at his lip doubtfully, then made up his
mind not to broach the subject.

After a silence Meg said wistfully:

"I suppose you would not care to take over the mortgage yourself?"

Finch stared, startled. "Me? I've never thought about it."

"Of course not." She looked into his eyes, smiling at his boyishness.
"But mortgages are a good investment, aren't they, Maurice?"

"I wish I owned a few," answered Maurice.

"What interest do you pay?" asked Finch.

"Seven per cent."

"Great Scott! I get only four per cent on some of mine!

"How much happier I should feel," cried Meg, "if you held the mortgage
in place of the old wretch who does!"

"There would be no need for sentiment to enter into it, on Finch's
side," put in Vaughan quickly. "This is a valuable property. And bound
to be more valuable. Look at the old Paige place that the Golf Club
bought. They gave a fancy price for that. One of these days we shall be
able to subdivide this and sell it in town lots."

"Good heavens, you wouldn't do that! Renny would never speak to you
again."

"Well, I might never do it. But Patience might when she grows up."

Finch asked, nervously--"What is the mortgage?"

"Fifteen thousand. At seven per cent--one thousand and fifty a year--paid
half-yearly."

Meg sighed--"And the old wretch is _so_ detestable always!"

"Why?" asked Finch.

"Oh--I don't know----"

Maurice interrupted her. "Meggie's too critical. He has rough manners;
that's all that's really wrong. He's not such a bad old fellow." Maurice
dropped the book from the hand which had been crippled in the war and it
fell to the floor. Meg frowned as he bent to pick it up.

Finch felt a glow of affection toward them as a couple, quite apart from
his brotherly love for Meg. "I'll do it," he exclaimed. "I'll take the
mortgage over. But, look here, I'll not accept seven per cent. It's
exorbitant. I'll not take more than five.

"You darling!" cried Meg. She made as if to rise and go to him, but,
even in a moment of emotion such as this, the effort was too great.
Instead she said again--"You darling!" And held out her arms to him.

Finch crossed to her rather shamefacedly. He did not want to be thanked.
But it was wonderful, this doing things for people and benefiting
himself at the same time.

Again Meg embraced him, pressed her plump lips on his. "I don't believe
we'll tell the others a thing about it," she said. "I do like privacy
about my own affairs, don't you?"

"Rather," said Finch.

They made all the arrangements, and, when they were complete, Finch
sought advice on the subject of the New York stock. Meg and Maurice
threw themselves into the discussion of it with enthusiasm. He would be
a fool, they said, not to take advantage of such an opportunity. Why
should Americans have all the money in the world? And if they had got
it, why should they be allowed to keep it? Finch could not do better
than to bring some of it here where it was so badly needed. He might
become a rich man. And there was surely little danger when heads of
publishing houses, who were right on the spot, considered it a good
thing.

"If Alayne," said Meg, "is going into it, you're safe. I never knew a
more calculating person. To me she's the very embodiment of shrewdness."

"She wasn't very shrewd when she married Eden," observed Maurice.

"Maurice, how can you say such a thing! If ever she showed shrewdness it
was then! Who was she? Nobody! He took her out of an office and brought
her to Jalna--to a life of _ease_. He made a _Whiteoak_ of her!"

"He nearly broke her heart," said Finch.

"Hearts like hers aren't so easily broken! They're too calculating. For
my part, I think she had her eye on Renny from the first. Poor lamb, he
hadn't a chance against her!"

The two men sighed simultaneously in the effort of picturing the red
fox, Renny, as a helpless lamb.

Patience, now within a few months of three, came running into the room.
She was vivacious as Mooey was grave. Her light brown hair lay sleek on
her head, her frock was bright blue.

"Baby, darling," said Meg, as Finch picked up the child, "you must put
your arms right round Uncle Finch's neck and give him a perfectly
'normous hug! He's just done something so nice for Mummy."

Patience pressed Finch's head against her stomach. "Oh, my Finchy!" she
cooed.

"Who's got a pretty new dress?" asked Finch, to cover his embarrassment.

Talking to Piers that afternoon, Finch could not forbear dropping a hint
about the taking over of the mortgage on Vaughanlands. Piers was
curious, and, after binding him to secrecy, Finch told all. Piers
thought it a very good thing for both parties. "But mind you make them
toe the mark with the payments," he advised. "Maurice is more than a
little slack in money matters. He owed me for two years for a Jersey
bull he bought, and I only got the money lately by keeping right after
him."

Finch felt a little depressed at the prospect of keeping right after
Maurice. The responsibility of wealth was beginning to weigh on him. He
said:

"You've never told me what you would like in the way of a present. It
would please me awfully to give you something. I hate not dividing
things up a bit."

"Oh, I'll think it over," and Piers turned away.

Finch strode after him. "You're not going to get out of it like this.
Just tell me something you'd really like."

"I've got everything I need."

"But there _must_ be something." He went on complainingly--"I don't know
what's the matter with you chaps! You'd think the money was tainted or
something-you're so shy of it!"

Piers stopped, and turned to Finch. "Well, if you want to make me a
present that won't break you, buy me a new motor car. The old one is
literally falling to pieces, and, as long as the engine has a kick in
it, Renny won't buy a new one."

"Good!" cried Finch. "I'm awfully glad you thought of that. And Pheasant
will enjoy it too. Shall we go in to-morrow and choose one?"

Piers made short work of choosing a car. He knew exactly what he wanted,
down to the smallest detail. How amazing, Finch thought, to know all
that when you had had no earthly prospect of getting a new car.

They had taken the train to town and come home in the car. It would be
hard to say which of them enjoyed the drive most--Finch, sitting with
folded arms, feeling, he could not have told why, rather like a
self-made man, rich enough at last to indulge in the pleasure of
philanthropy; or Piers, with a small, set grin on his face, entranced by
speed.

They talked little on the way, but, by the time they reached Jalna,
Finch had promised to re-shingle the barn for Piers, and to build him an
up-to-date piggery. It was understood that Piers was to repay the cost
of this when he was able.

Everyone came out of the house to admire the new car. Pheasant and Mooey
danced round it. He must be lifted into it and must sit with his little
hands on the wheel. Pheasant put her arm about Alayne. "You must share
it too. The old car is a _disgrace_." Nicholas and Ernest were delighted
at the thought of driving in such style to the train on their departure.
There was nothing cheap about the car. It was a beauty, they agreed. But
Wakefield was dubious.

"I don't believe," he said, "that my grandmother would approve. She
never liked the old car. She thought buying it was a great waste of
money."

Piers answered--"She's not here to worry over changes, and, as for you,
you shan't ride in it, just for being cheeky."

"Still, I don't think Gran would like her money to be spent on motor
cars."

"Would you like your seat warmed?"

"No." He edged away.

"Well, shut up, then!"

As they reached the garage they saw Renny standing in the door of the
stable. When he saw the new car he turned sharply away and disappeared.

At dinner, in the face of his forbidding expression, no one referred to
the purchase. Only Wakefield, in every pause, made some pensive remark
relating to the likes and dislikes of his grandmother.

The day of leaving drew inexorably near. Then it dallied in a spell of
heavy rainfall, seeming unreal and far off. Then it rushed upon them,
giving them scarcely time for their last preparations.

Nicholas and Ernest had taken tea with each of their old friends in
turn. Ernest's cheeks were flushed by excitement. Years seemed to fall
from him with every day. The death of Sasha, which in moments of quiet
saddened him deeply, made him feel in the moment of departure singularly
free from responsibility. Nicholas, on the contrary, was intensely
irritable. Gout danced about his knee, always threatening him, always
making him feel that, at the last moment, he might have to postpone the
trip. He found it hard to tear himself from the four walls of his room
where he could do just as he liked and need pretend to be in no better
humour than he was. And, though he would not acknowledge it, he was
worried by the pleading look in Nip's eyes. Toward the last Finch could
do little but play the piano. From morning to night he played. And, when
the family would no longer endure it, he went to the Vaughans or the
Rectory and played there.

He was up before the sun on the last day. A gale from the west had blown
all night, making him wakeful. He rose and leaned out of the window,
letting the coolness of the wind refresh him. Daybreak, like a silver
sail, was raised in the east, behind the darkness of the wood. To him it
seemed the swelling sail of his adventure into a different world.

But he wished his old world had been less lovely on this last morning.
He wished that the bird-song that seemed to be shaken from the boughs by
the wind had been less heart-rendingly sweet; that the silver sail of
daybreak had not turned to gold, and then to rose, before his eyes. He
would have liked to take away with him a homely, comforting remembrance
of the place, not the etherealised aching beauty of this May morning.
The green of the new leaves was too translucently green, the shadows in
the ravine slept in too rich a bloom, the mating birds called from tree
to tree with too tranced a longing.

He dressed, in a kind of dream, and went out, taking old Benny, the
sheep-dog, with him. One by one he visited his old haunts. The rustic
bridge across the stream, the apple tree in the old orchard, in whose
crotch he had spent many hours reading. He went to the inmost part of
the wood and lay down on the ground beneath the white-stemmed birches,
pressing his face there, drinking in the smell of the soil. He crushed
the young grass in his fingers and smelled it. He cut his initials and
the date on a smooth white bole. He wondered what he would experience
before he saw this place again. The old dog trotted seriously about,
investigating, sniffing for a while, then settled down in a sunny space
to doze.

The three who were going away took dinner at the Vaughans. Meggie could
not bear to part with them till tea-time. When they returned to Jalna
the new car was before the door, the hand-luggage already placed in it.
Everything was in a rush now. They were annoyed with themselves and
Meggie for detaining them so late. Pheasant had on her tweed suit and
little brown hat. Mooey, though he was not going, was dressed in his
best. Between slices of bread and honey Piers looked at his watch.
Alayne was tying up a package of books she had bought for them to read
on the voyage. Meg had packed a hamper with plum cake, currant jelly,
the last of the russet apples, "because Finch loved them so," and a jar
of cough mixture made of rum and honey, which she thought infallible.
From first to last the protection of this hamper fell to Finch and was a
constant source of worry to him until, on shipboard, he scraped out and
ate the last spoonful of the cough mixture, just to get rid of it. How
could he throw away anything Meg had given him!

Renny had not come in to tea. Finch asked, rather anxiously, where he
was. Ernest explained--"He said good-bye to Nicholas and me before we
went to Meggie's. He said he might not be in to tea."

"But he did not tell me good-bye," stammered Finch. "Surely he would not
let me go away without seeing me?"

"Surely not!" Ernest looked much concerned. "But there is no time for
hunting him up. We must leave as soon as we have had our tea."

"I don't want any tea!" He set down his cup and rushed out of the house.
He had a sense of panic.

Running towards the stables, he saw Wright in the act of backing the old
car into the garage. He hesitated, and Wright called out:

"If you're looking for Mr. Whiteoak, sir, he's over at Mrs. Lebraux's."

Finch halted. "Wright, what's the best time you can make to drive me
there and back?"

"I can get you there in five minutes, sir."

Finch clambered into the car. He must see Renny! The others would just
have to wait for him if he were late. There was plenty of time for
catching the train.... Wright was showing what the old car could do.
"You wouldn't think she had it in her, would you, sir?" he grinned. A
box that had been bumping about on the back seat fell to the floor. The
door of the car jarred open and the box rolled into the road.

"Let it go!" cried Finch.

Wright drove on. "That was a mixture I'd just got from the vet," he said
ruefully.

The place Antoine Lebraux had rented for his venture into fox-breeding
comprised about twenty acres, a wooden house painted a dingy white, a
small stable, a poultry-house, and the fragile outbuildings Lebraux had
added. Finch had known it as the house of a retired tradesman who had
built it ten years before, had spent his days in keeping the premises in
unnatural order, and had been swift to complain of any intrusion on the
part of the boys or dogs from Jalna. Several times Renny had had to pay
him for fowls, the deaths of which were laid at their door.

Finch had always hated the ugly neatness of the place, hated the rows of
white painted stones that lay on either side of the walk. As he ran
between them to the door his swift glance took in the air of neglect
that had replaced the smug tidiness.

He pressed the electric bell twice without answer. Then he saw, stuck
above it askew, a card with the words "Out of order." He knocked loudly.
The minutes flew while he waited for some response, then a step sounded
in the passage and a bolt was drawn. "Good Lord, was Renny locked in
there?" The door opened and Pauline Lebraux stood on the threshold. She
looked half-frightened at seeing him. She wore a black serge dress of
scanty cut, and this, with her long black legs and dense dark hair
standing out about her face, made her look strangely fragile and
pathetic. On her arm she carried, like an infant, a sickly fox cub
wrapped in flannel. Its bright eyes peered out at Finch with an
expression abnormally intelligent. Her appearance was so singular to
Finch that he forgot for a moment what his errand was.

"I'm going away," he said.

He thought a shadow darkened her face, but she only smiled a little and
said--"Won't you come in?"

"Thanks, but I mustn't. I'm in a rush to catch the train. I came to see
if Renny is here."

"Yes. He's with mother. Helping her with the foxes. Are you going far?"

"To England?"

"For a long time?"

"All the summer. Perhaps longer."

He thought it cruel of her mother to have put her into mourning. He
heard himself saying--"I hardly knew you in that dress. You had on white
the night you were at our place."

"This is one of my school-dresses. I went to a convent in Quebec."

He thought she looked exquisitely remote, half-wild, with the fox cub in
her arms. He had a sudden desire to touch her, somehow to bring her near
him.

He said, almost in a whisper--"Will you kiss me good-bye?" She was only a
child, but he reddened in an odd excitement of the nerves.

She shook her head. "No. But you may kiss my hand."

She was being affected, he thought, then remembered her French
upbringing. He took the hand she offered, thin and white, with the
immature wrist showing below the black sleeve, and raised it to his
lips.

They repeated "Good-bye," shyly. He hastened to the back of the house
and looked about, in the hope of seeing Renny.

He saw the foxes in their enclosures, their fur darkly-bright in the
lowering sun-rays. He heard voices in the little stable. How could he go
there and call Renny's name, as though he were a child? He had a feeling
of hot anger against Renny. He had a mind to return to Jalna without
seeing him. But he had been seen from within. Renny appeared in the
doorway, then came slowly toward him.

"Looking for me?" he asked.

"Did you suppose I'd go away without saying good-bye?" blazed Finch.

"How was I to know what you'd do? You do what you like."

Finch was aghast. Was this the way they were going to part? If it was,
it would spoil his trip. If he missed his train, if he missed the boat,
he would stay here till he'd wrung something better than this taciturn
coldness from Renny.

"What have I done? Why are you treating me like this?"

"Watch out! Mrs. Lebraux is in there, she'll hear you."

"I'm missing my train, do you know that? Yet you won't say a friendly
word to me! God, we might never meet again!"

"I hate saying good-bye."

"But you said good-bye to Uncle Nick and Uncle Ernie. Why not me?"

"That's just it. I didn't so much mind saying good-bye to them."

Finch's eyes searched the lean red face before him. If that were the
truth--and Renny was not a liar--and he was frightfully queer about some
things.--Oh, perhaps it was not so bad after all--perhaps Renny didn't
hate him--why, Renny had always kissed him when they parted, like a
father! He looked into Renny's eyes, his face suddenly contorted in an
effort to keep from crying. He put out his hand.

Renny took it and drew Finch toward him. He bent and kissed him in the
old way. Finch sniffed the familiar smell of stable on him. A load
rolled from his heart.

Mrs. Lebraux came out of the stable. She was bare-headed and wore a
man's linen dust-coat. She was rather attractive out of doors, Finch
thought, with her short hair in its strange stripes of tow colour and
brown, blown back from her face, her blue-eyed boyish stare and her
reckless-looking mouth. She showed him her hands.

"I can't shake hands with you, you see. I've been working with the
foxes, and now I'm learning how to look after horses."

Finch murmured a few hurried words of greeting and farewell, threw a
warm glance to Renny, and hastened back to the car. But he was still
within earshot when she said in her deep, rather musical voice, with its
Maritime Province accent:

"It was amusing to see you kiss that tall youth. I hadn't imagined----"

That was all he heard. But what hadn't she imagined, he wondered. And
what had been Renny's reply? He would give a good deal to know. And why
had Renny gone to the fox-farm that afternoon? Had he spoken the truth
when he said that he had been loth to say good-bye? Or had he just been
nursing his resentment against Finch? Still, this was not the first time
he had taken himself off at a critical moment. Finch drew a deep sigh as
they bumped along the road.

At Jalna he found the others in varying degrees of perturbation at his
delay. Ernest was almost in despair, not able to keep still for a
moment. Nicholas, solidly settled in the car, was uttering wrathful
ejaculations. Pheasant was distraught. Piers said that it was almost
more than he could do to keep his hands off him. Wakefield had brought
out a pair of binoculars the better to watch for him, though the road
was quite hidden from the drive by trees. It was one of the moments when
Alayne felt that the Whiteoaks were almost beyond bearing. With a
controlled expression she stood holding Mooey in her arms. Mooey was
dubiously sucking his thumb, only taking it from his mouth at intervals
to say--"I'm not f'ightened."

They caught the train, and that was all. The porter had barely disposed
of their luggage, Piers had barely shaken hands all round, Pheasant
kissed all round and exclaimed, "Oh, how I wish I were going too!" when
she and Piers had to get off. They stood on the platform together as the
train drew out, their young faces upturned, she blowing a kiss to the
three at the window; he bareheaded, a smile, in which there was a shadow
of boyish envy of the adventurers, softening his face.




                                   VI


                               THE VOYAGE

Nicholas and Ernest had arranged that they should sail from New York,
returning by way of Quebec. Once, years ago, they had done this and had
enjoyed the variety it gave. They would like to repeat the experience,
and it would be interesting for Finch.

It was necessary that Nicholas have a cabin to himself. He was so heavy,
he said, and could not bear the thought of others in the room with him.
Ernest and Finch therefore shared one. The boat sailed at midnight.
Finch felt beside himself with excitement.

To sail out of the harbour under the quivering brightness of the stars;
to look back at the starry brilliance of the city that stretched out
arms, as though to hold the ship; to gaze ahead into the unrolling
obscurity of the sea, stirred the very pith of him. Up and up till he
was on the highest deck, which he had almost to himself, there to lean
against the rail, feeling the trembling of her through all his nerves,
brought him a new joy unlike anything he had yet experienced.

He might have spent the night there had he not remembered that Uncle
Ernest would be wanting to turn in. Down below he found that the
confusion was lessening, but there were still groups of women in evening
cloaks, carrying flowers, surrounded by too prosperous-looking men. Here
and there were stewards, fetching vases to hold flowers, running
errands. He had trouble in finding his state-room in the intricacies of
the passages. The door of the one next his stood open, and, on the floor
just inside, he saw two flower-baskets and several open boxes filled
with roses. Two women stood in the passage reading a telegram together,
clutching other telegrams in their hands. "Telegrams," he thought;
"trouble at home, poor things! Hard luck that, just as they're setting
out."

He found his uncle tucked up neatly in the lower berth, his clothes
unpacked and hung in the wardrobe, a little irritated at the lateness of
Finch's coming.

"This is what comes," he remarked, "of travelling with someone your
age!"

"But," returned Finch, peeling off his things, "I don't think you could
have slept if I had been here, there's so much noise in the corridors."

"I could have had this glaring light turned out, at any rate."

Finch wasted no time. Soon he was clambering up the little ladder,
snuggling on his swaying perch, rather like a wild-eyed young cockerel,
half-timid, half-challenging toward the world.

He lay there feeling in himself the capacity for absorbing the essence
of what surrounded him, not only the beauty or the tragedy, but the mere
motion and sound, the thrusting of the ship's bow against what would
restrain her, the foamy onslaught and the troubled retreat of the waves
against her side.

The next morning the sky had clouded and the sea grown rough. Nicholas
and Finch were sick men. But Ernest, in spite of his weak digestion, had
not enjoyed his meals so well in years. For two days the others lay in
their berths while he savoured the pleasure of new contacts. While they
aged the years fell from him as he paced the deck or played bridge and
sipped cocktails in the lounge. The invincible vein of youthfulness in
him was rubbed bright. He strode out with the best of them on the
promenade deck. He seemed more like a man of sixty than one of
seventy-four.

The third day out, when the sky had become a merry blue and the sea was
scarcely ruffled, the invalids reappeared, looking rather sallow, and
feeling a little resentful of Ernest's state of well-being. Nicholas had
the habit of looking down on him as something of a weakling, while Finch
had been obliged to watch his cheery changes of costume from his own
perch of suffering, for two days. Had been waked from his first restful
sleep by Ernest returning flushed out of his bath, opening and shutting
drawers, talking breezily to the steward.

Ernest's wish was to keep away from their melancholy presence and to
make desirable acquaintance among the passengers. It was on the second
day that he had discovered Rosamond Trent.

It was a moment before he recognised her as the friend with whom Alayne
had shared an apartment before her marriage to Eden. Ernest had met her
several times on his visit to New York and had admired her. Now he felt
delighted at the re-encounter at such an auspicious moment. She showed
an almost equal pleasure at meeting him. Her mind still brooded with
passionate affection on Alayne. She felt pity for her and a kind of
envy. Pity, because Alayne had buried herself in a place so remote from
New York; envy, because she would have liked to reach out and grasp the
varied experiences of those who existed outside that city. She had a
certain greed for life, and, in New York, she thought she had her ear
against the beating of its heart, but was, at times, doubtfully
conscious that she was not aware of what its extremities were doing.

They settled themselves in the prettiest corner of the lounge and Ernest
nodded toward the wine-steward. He remembered Miss Trent's fondness for
cocktails. She was, he noted, perfectly turned out, from her closely
fitting hat to her manicured hands and her shoes that, one felt, were
specially designed for shipboard wear in the month of May.

"Now, do tell me," she said eagerly, "about Alayne! I was just thrilled
by her second marriage. But I'm so perfectly devoted to her that I can't
help worrying the least teeny bit when she doesn't write often. I
haven't had a letter from her for three weeks."

"Alayne is very well. To my mind she grows more charming. She and Renny
are so deeply attached. They are really like one being."

Miss Trent smiled happily. "Ah, I'm perfectly delighted to hear that! I
was so disappointed at not meeting him when he was in New York two years
ago. _Do_ you think that Alayne is ever going to invite me to visit
her?" She hurried on, without waiting for an answer, asking questions
about the family (knowing most of them only through Alayne) as though
they were old friends. She was shocked to hear that Renny had ridden at
the New York Horse Show the autumn before and had not come to see her.
She and Ernest got on famously. She told him that he looked younger
every time she saw him, and he told her that she looked handsomer every
time he saw her. And, after a couple of cocktails, he and she did indeed
look even younger and handsomer still.

She had given up the profession of advertising, she told him, and had
gone into the antique business with a friend. They had put all their
capital into it. They were like two leaves swept along by a tide. They
might arrive _anywhere_ or be just _swamped_. The object of Miss Trent's
trip to England was the purchase of more antiques.

"In my waking moments," she declared, "I think of _nothing_ but
antiques."

"How well I understand you," said Ernest, leaning toward her across the
cocktails. "I am exactly like that about my annotation of Shakespeare.
Waking or sleeping, it is seldom out of my head."

Miss Trent's eyes found the depths of his. "Do you think," she asked,
"that you are going to realise your dream?"

Ernest said that he thought he was.

On the morning when Nicholas and Finch came on deck they found the two
stretched side by side in their deck chairs. No other legs on the deck
had been swathed so meticulously by the steward, as theirs. They
exhibited a like fastidiousness. There was not a wrinkle in their rugs.
On his lay his binoculars. On hers the latest available copy of _The
Connoisseur_. Her head was thrown back, her lips parted, showing her
fine teeth. She looked young for her fifty-five years.

Nicholas, who was leaning on Finch's arm, halted and stared. Finch
stared too, recognising Rosamond Trent. He told his uncle that she was
the New York friend who had, in a way, mothered Alayne.

Nicholas gave Ernest a poke with his stick and smiled ironically down on
him. Ernest, a little self-conscious under his brother's eye, introduced
him to Miss Trent.

Ernest arranged that they should sit at table together. So Rosamond had
the felicity of being surrounded by three distinguished-looking men,
distinguished, at least, by their dissimilarity from the other men
aboard. Their contrast to their companion also was marked. The group was
the subject of some conjecture. How had they come together? Rosamond,
usually sociable, now became distant, determined to keep her little
circle intact.

Nicholas took a quite unreasonable dislike to the good-natured woman. He
was annoyed at having the isolation that he craved when travelling
disturbed by imposed intercourse with her. He was annoyed by the sight
of Ernest promenading the deck with her, discussing the menu with her.
He hated the sight of the food she chose. He resented her knowledge of
the affairs of his family, her knowingness concerning antiques. She even
knew that at Jalna there were some fine Chippendale "pieces" brought
over by Captain Whiteoak.

He decided that she was a fool, and told Ernest so.

Ernest decided that poor old Nick was only envious of the brisk time he
was having. He did not say this to Nicholas, but he did say that Miss
Trent was one of the best-turned-out women on board.

"That may be," returned his brother, "but she's not at all Alayne's
sort. I can't see how she ever came to take up with her. There's
something cheap about her."

Ernest smiled pityingly. "You don't understand New York life, or even
modern life. Besides, Miss Trent comes of a good Virginian family. Her
people used to keep slaves."

"It appears to me that she keeps one now," said Nicholas testily.

As Miss Trent and Ernest became more preoccupied with each other,
Nicholas and Finch held more aloof from them. Finch was too shy to make
friends with other young people on board. He would stand in the doorway
of the saloon watching them dance, choosing an imaginary partner among
them. One girl, with a rather heavy face but with movements of sustained
rhythm, attracted him. Through an entire dance he would follow the
graceful swaying of her body, mentally pressing it against his own, then
turn away and find some isolated spot on the deck where he could watch
the dark rhythm of the waves.

Once he found the saloon deserted when some amusing contest claimed the
attention of all, and he sat down at the piano. He played the Prelude in
A softly, for fear of being heard, bending over the keyboard as though
with his body to muffle the sound. Before he was finished he was
conscious that there were others in the room with him. He kept on, but,
when he had touched the last notes, he rose and, assuming the sullen
hang-dog expression he often wore at home, he hurried out. The girl with
the heavy face and graceful movements was in the doorway as he brushed
past. She had been playing the piano through him, as he had danced
through her.

His Uncle Nicholas complained a good deal to him of his Uncle Ernest.

"He's acting like a simpleton," he said. "There's nothing he won't do.
He and that woman went into some idiotic contest as partners and
actually won first prize. I've just been in the lounge seeing them get
it. I don't know what your grandmother would say if she could see him.
Upon my word, I shouldn't be surprised if he'd end by marrying her, if
she were fool enough to have him."

Finch was horrified. The thought of Uncle Ernest as a husband, the
husband of Miss Trent, caused his world to rock. He gasped:

"Is there nothing we can do to stop it? Couldn't you give him a talking
to? Couldn't you remind him what Gran would think if she knew? He's
always quoting her opinion himself."

"He'd probably make out that she'd quite approve of Miss Trent. Spirits
always say just what you want them to, you know."

"Well, look here, Uncle Nick--do you think I might try to cut him out?"

Nicholas looked him over with amusement. "He's twenty years older than
she is, and you're about thirty-five years younger. You might have a go
at it, though she seems to be out for antiques."

Nicholas was not so much worried over Ernest's behaviour as irritated by
it. But Finch was very much worried.

On the last night out a fancy dress dance was given. Nicholas, after
watching the changeful pattern of the dancers for a while, went early to
his berth. Finch, lurking outside a window, saw two figures in dominoes
which, he made sure, were those of Rosamond Trent and Ernest. The thin
one in mauve was Ernest. Mauve! The very tentative blithesomeness of the
colour sent a stab of apprehension through Finch. He felt weighed down
by a sense of responsibility for his uncle. How to save him from Miss
Trent!

They were undressing in their cabin when Ernest remarked:

"Rosamond Trent is a very brilliant woman, Finch. A very vigorous yet
very sympathetic woman."

Finch's head was concealed in his shirt and he left it there, feeling
more comfortable thus sequestered, while Ernest went on.

"She has rare business acumen combined with understanding of those of
more reflective bent."

Finch thought--"It's coming! God help us!" And he kept his head inside
his shirt.

Ernest proceeded--"She never succeeded in her advertising enterprise
because it gave no scope for her really ardent temperament."

Ardent! Oh, this was too much! He struggled out of his shirt and stood
in his bare pelt, crimson faced, glaring at his uncle.

Ernest sat down on the side of his berth and fixed his eyes on Finch's.
"But this collecting of antiques is another affair----"

"Antiques," mumbled Finch; "you don't mean----"

"Mean _what_?"

"That you're going----" He could not get it out.

"What I was going to say is that it seems such a pity to see a woman
like Miss Trent handicapped in her new enterprise for lack of funds."

"Oh," said Finch, relieved, "is that all!"

"Isn't that enough?"

"Uncle Ernie, I thought you were going to tell me that you were in love
with her."

Ernest's face turned almost as red as Finch's, but he did not look
ill-pleased.

"I hope I've too much sense to be falling in love at my age," he said.
"And if I were going to do anything so foolish, it would be with quite a
different sort of woman. A woman more like Alayne possibly."

Finch felt boundless relief as he hurriedly pulled on his pyjamas.

"Miss Trent has put all her capital into her business. It is tied up.
She has not sufficient ready money to invest in antiques to insure a
large profit. She is sadly hampered. If she had, say, ten thousand
dollars to invest at once, she could, with her skill, double, even
treble it."

Finch climbed up to his own berth. He hung over the edge of it, looking
down on Ernest, feeling somehow that he had saved him from some danger.
But it turned out that it was Miss Trent whom he was to save, and, in
saving her, make a splendid investment for himself. To the muffled
throbbing of the engine they discussed the intricacies of her affairs,
with which Ernest was astonishingly familiar, far into the night.




                                  VII


                                 LONDON

There they were, crowded into a taxi, making their way through the
traffic of the London streets, Finch on one of the drop-seats, almost
dislocating his neck in the effort to see out of both windows at once.
It was too unreal, seeing the places he had heard of so familiarly all
his life. Westminster Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar
Square, the lions, Buckingham Palace! They thundered at him like a
series of explosions. It was too much. It was overwhelming.

His uncles simultaneously pointed out places on opposite sides of the
street. They were amused and touched by the expression of his face. It
was nearly twenty years since they had been in London. They perceived
changes even in that hurried drive. Old landmarks gone, new buildings
towering in their place. A certain depression tempered the pleasure of
the return.

They had engaged rooms at the same hotel where once they had been
familiar guests. It was no longer a fashionable hotel and had lost
something of its air of elegance. But they were delighted to find that
the hall porter was the same, scarcely changed except for greying. He
recognised Ernest, after a moment of hesitation, but Nicholas only
because he was in the company of Ernest. This heavy old man with the
drooping shoulders, the sombre face where, only in the eyes, the old
light smouldered, was a very different gentleman from the former Mr.
Nicholas Whiteoak.

Finch leant across his window-ledge and looked down into the street.
Tawny yellow sunlight gave it mystery. The shadows of pedestrians were
elongated. A flower-seller with his barrow of spring flowers had taken
his stand below.  Three disabled returned men were at the corner playing
the Londonderry Air on two violins and a sort of legless piano held on
the knees. A fourth man timidly held out a hat toward the passers-by.
From the position of the piano-player's head Finch guessed that he was
blind. He closed his own eyes and listened to the wild plaintive strain.
Beneath the music he heard the turgid rumble of the city's life.
London.... It was too unreal to be here. He could not believe it.

He wanted to buy violets from the flower-seller, to give money to the
musicians, to do something for the terrible-looking old woman in the
feathered hat, shuffling along the opposite side of the street. He
wanted to make a gallant gesture to the plump lady in the flower-boxed
window across the way as she paused in her conversation with her parrot
to look at him. He must go out again. He could not endure the indoors.
They had been out all afternoon, had just come back in time for tea, but
he must go out again, this time uncleless.

They were to be only a week in town before going on to visit Augusta.
The fine weather might not hold, so Nicholas and Ernest had decided to
go to the Park on that first afternoon. They had sat in the little green
chairs watching the riders cantering in the Row. Finch had sat between
them, and they, hands clasped on their sticks, had leaned forward to
talk across him. Their quiet tones had broken into excited exclamations
once when they had recognised a burly purple-faced rider as an old
acquaintance. They had been more or less certain of the identity of half
a dozen others. A handsome girl riding a black horse was so like another
handsome girl, sat her mount with so like a grace, that she must surely
be a daughter. It was most exciting.

They had walked through the gardens, shown Finch the Serpentine and the
water-fowl, the flaming rhododendrons, the rosy foam of the hawthorns in
bloom, pointing out this and that to him with their sticks as though he
had been their little boy. But the new apartment houses in Park Lane
were horrible to them. Strange, they said, that nothing could have been
done to prevent that. They were disgusted with Finch for thinking that
Park Lane was still a fine street.

To go forth uncleless was now his idea of happiness. He got his hat and
went down to the street. Before he could stop himself he had bought a
bunch of violets from the flower-seller, and so had to set out with
these inadequately wrapped in paper in his hand. He dropped a sixpence
into the hat for the musicians. He stood listening as once more they
played the Londonderry Air. Sensitive as his nerves were to music, they
did not shrink before the discords. He was no more affected than a
skylark might be affected by the oddities of other singers. But the look
in the eyes of these men hurt him deeply.

He went past densely crowded corners, crossing streets in the jam of
evening traffic. He found himself in a little bar in North Audley Street
with a whiskey and soda before him. He longed to talk to the barmaid,
for he thought she looked interested in him, but had not the courage. He
had never been in a bar before.

He strolled along the street, looking in the shop windows. One, in which
works of art from the East were displayed, held him. He saw a
blanc-de-Chine figure rather like the Kwan Yin that Gran had given him.
The little white hands of the goddess were like the half-opened buds of
some night-blooming lily. Her tiny feet, set wide apart, were like
resting white birds. He should have liked to lay his violets at them.

He entered the shop and enquired the price. He was astonished to find
how high it was. He told the attendant that he had one very much like it
at home. He did not say where his home was, but he was aware as they
continued in conversation that the man knew he was not an Englishman,
and he wondered how. Finch told him that he was not going to buy
anything, but the man's interest did not flag. He seemed willing just to
stand and talk about the various objects admired by Finch. Although he
had barely arrived in London, he began to think of what presents he
should like to take home to the others. The years that his grandparents
had spent in India, the things they had brought from there, had created
in their descendants an interest in things oriental. He should like to
take that wicked-looking scimitar to Piers, who had a fancy for old
weapons, and had been given his grandfather's long cavalry sword. And
for Meggie that embroidered screen. And Wakefield would like that carved
ivory pagoda. He thought of Wake with sudden tenderness. Poor young
devil--he had never been anywhere, seen anything. And, for that matter,
where had Piers been, and what had Piers seen? And here was he seeing
and doing so much!

When he had left the shop he looked again into the window and saw a
picture of a snow-white cockatoo, with a coral-coloured crest, and he
suddenly remembered Pauline Lebraux, and thought he should like to take
the picture to her. He saw her clearly for a moment, with her dense dark
hair and long black-stockinged legs, standing before the cockatoo, hands
clasped in rapt admiration.

Either the things he had seen in the shop, the kindness of the man, or
the thought of little Pauline, he did not consider which, gave him a
feeling of deep elation as he went on his way down the street.

He stopped before the window of an elegant saddler's to choose the
perfect saddle for Renny.

He walked on and on. It seemed that he would never tire. At a corner,
surrounded by a few stragglers, he came upon an old man, standing
bareheaded, reciting Shakespeare. He had a grand old head, a battered
face, and a voice hoarse from declaiming in the foggy air.

    "Speak of me as I am, nothing extenuate,
    Nor set down aught in malice."

As he was! Finch looked at him, tattered, broken, despair in his eyes.
Speak of him as he was! Oh, who could do it? Who could bear to think of
him as he was?

He stood listening to the voice that was sometimes drowned by the
passage of an omnibus, broken by the jeering interruptions of one of the
stragglers. Yet once, Finch was sure, he had been a good actor. He had
the artist's instinct of knowing when he was appreciated. He finished,
with his eyes full on Finch. He bowed, with a fine mixture of humility
and tragedy, above the half-crown dropped into his hat.

"Well, it was a good deal to give him," Finch thought,  as he walked
away, "but I've paid more to see poorer acting."

He wandered on, losing all sense of direction. He was in streets of
small shops and cinemas, frequented by the working-class. They were a
slow-moving, respectable-looking lot, with knobbly features, under the
electric lights. They were exactly like crowds he had mingled with at
home, when he had stayed in town for the night, and he and George Fennel
had been members of an orchestra. Different from the New York crowd with
its predominance of foreign faces.

He had bacon and eggs and coffee in a Lyons shop, sitting at a table
next a young couple with the most stunned expression he had ever seen.
He wondered what they had done, or were going to do, that they should
have that expression. The woman did not eat, but just nibbled the tip of
her finger, while the man poked squares of bread into his mouth, where
they were consumed, apparently without chewing or swallowing, like
letters dropped into a pillar-box.

The week they were to have spent in London lengthened into two. Nicholas
and Ernest renewed old acquaintances, and were alternately elated and
depressed by the revivification of their past. Finch went with them to
dine at the house of the magenta-faced rider in the Row, who, after some
conversation with the boy, came to the conclusion that the Whiteoaks
were degenerating.

Ernest took Finch to Westminster Abbey, and he stood awestruck, his
forelock drooping, above the wreath which the Sultan of Zanzibar had
lately laid on the tomb of the Unknown Warrior.

Finch went on the Sunday morning to Hyde Park and stood among a group of
tattered Welsh miners, listening to Socialistic and anti-Socialistic
orators. He heard the latter turn the mettlesome force of an obscene
vocabulary on an Irish interrupter.

He listened to the arguments of a young lady, who looked half-frozen in
the wind, on behalf of the Catholic League. She spoke well, and he was
moved by the sight of the crucifix upright on the ground beside her.

He pictured himself as a leaf blown back across the sea from a root
transplanted. Here, in England, his grandfather,  Captain Whiteoak, had
been born. Here his mother, daughter of a London journalist who was
always hard up, had been born. Here she had wandered about, distraught,
after her father's death, wondering what to do, before she had decided
to go to Canada as a governess. Three-quarters of him were English. All
but that fourth quarter. That had come like a stormy wind out of the
West--a fierce gale from Ireland--in the person of Gran.




                                  VIII


                              NYMET CREWS

Augusta had dressed herself with even more care than usual on this
afternoon. She arranged with even greater exactitude her hair, still
worn in the fashion of Queen Alexandra, that curled fringe upon which
her nephews had so often speculated, going to the length of making bets
with each other as to whether it were her own and natural in colour, her
own and dyed, or a transformation. Not one of them had ever found out.
And, if her brothers knew, they loyally kept the knowledge to
themselves.

She surveyed herself in the long glass in her bedroom with inward
satisfaction, but, if an onlooker had been present, he would have
supposed that her reflection met with her complete disapprobation. She
drew in her chin, stiffening the back of her neck, and widened her eyes
into an expression of surprised offence. But this aspect was as natural
to her as one of bold dominance had been to her mother. Her gaze
appeared to be a defence against the object upon which she turned it, as
old Adeline's had been one of challenging curiosity.

Augusta was little changed since her mother's death. She had, in truth,
improved in appearance.

The last visit to Jalna, which had been prolonged to three years, had
been something of a strain, enduring, as she had, the old lady's
caprices and quips at her expense, and continually expecting that so
long delayed death. The lively commotion of the household had also been
rather exhausting to a woman herself long past seventy. The return to
the serenity of her own house, where there was no one to contradict her,
without running the risk of losing their situation, and nothing more
exciting than the misbehaviour of maids, was a benefit to her health.

So, with inward satisfaction and outward disdain, she put the finishing
touches to her toilette, noted her still shapely shoulders, and the
unimpaired arch of her Court nose. Her complexion had always been bad,
so in that respect she had had nothing to lose.

She went the rounds of the rooms prepared for her brothers and nephew,
saw that the ewers were full of fresh water, clean towels on the racks,
and sniffed the pleasant scent of lavender from the bed-linen.

She descended to the drawing-room, where the tea-table, an hour late in
agreement with the arrival of the train, had just been arranged by the
parlour-maid, Ellen. She had been with Augusta many years, and, having
made up her mind, on the day after her arrival, that her mistress's look
of offence was directed at her, had acquired an apologetic, scuttling
air with which she efficiently performed all her duties. Augusta,
however, thought Ellen was an admirable servant, and was constantly
singing her praises to friends.

She looked doubtfully over the tea-table. Would there be enough scones?
Was one square of honey in the comb sufficient? She remembered Finch's
appetite, how she had always tried to put flesh on him and failed. Well,
at any rate, there was plenty of bread and butter, and the fruit-cake
was unusually deep.

She went to a window and looked across the spring greenness of the lawn
and park to where she could see the road climbing upward from the
village. Only one vehicle was in sight--the cart of Jim Johnson, the
carrier, returning after one of his two weekly trips to Exhampton. She
waited there a few minutes, but she could not be quiet for long. She was
too restlessly awaiting the arrival. It would be so nice to see them. A
week ago she had had all ready to receive them, when a telegram had come
to say that they were remaining another seven days in London. It was so
like Nicholas to have sent it at the last minute. He and Ernest had not
been to visit her since her husband's death. On that last visit they had
quite tired out Sir Edwin by talking so much, and being so late to meals
and disagreeing with him, as he said to her afterwards, on every subject
he brought up. Well, he was safely at rest in the family vault now, and
the years had made her brothers more amenable. As for Finch, he was now
her favourite nephew. Eden had been once because of his charm, his good
manners, his talents; but he was behaving altogether too badly. She
loved Renny, but he had inherited several of mamma's most regrettable
traits. Piers was a splendid young fellow, but sometimes surly and with
quite rough manners caused, she supposed, by association with grooms and
labourers. Wakefield was a darling and quite companionable for his
years, but there was something about Finch that made her feel almost
maternal.

She began to be really annoyed at the lateness of the arrival of her
relatives. She sat down by the table, however, and held herself
together. The firelight (an unnecessary extravagance, for the afternoon
was still warm) played over the folds of her black satin dress and
maliciously accentuated a dark mole on her left cheek.

A step sounded in the hall and a small spare woman appeared in the
doorway. She was Mrs. Thomas Court, Augusta's cousin by marriage. Her
husband had been a son of old Adeline's youngest brother. She had lived,
since her marriage, in Ireland, but had remained in all aspects English,
as Augusta was inherently English though brought up in Canada. She
advanced into the room in a quick, jerky walk like a little wound-up
figure. Her hair, dragged back from the forehead, vied with Augusta's in
purplish darkness. She had a complexion even more sallow, but she
brightened it with two spots of rouge, and her dress, though ornate and
old-fashioned, was sprightly. Her features were small, her light grey
eyes intense, and the expression of her thin-lipped mouth one of
unyielding conceit. Mingled with these qualities was a kind of jaunty
good-humour. She wore a black tailored suit, with a hair-line stripe,
the skirt of which reached her instep, just disclosing her rather heavy
black boots that squeaked irritably as she walked. She walked straight
to the window, with a side glance at the tea-table.

Outdoors a shadow had fallen.

"Is it raining?" asked Augusta.

"Just beginning to spot," replied Mrs. Court, her eyes on the paved
terrace.

"I wish it would rain. The flowers need it."

"I hope it doesn't. Dry weather agrees with me much better. It suits my
ear."

"How is your ear?"

"Going chug-chug, the same as ever."

Augusta deepened her contralto tones. "Dear me, how very aggravating!"

Mrs. Court wheeled and stared at her. "Aggravating doesn't express it at
all; it's maddening."

She advanced, with a business-like air and squeaking boots, to the
tea-table. She pointed with a knuckly forefinger at the plate of scones.
"Give me one of those and a cup of tea, and I'll carry them to my room.
Relations don't want outsiders poking noses into their reunions.

"I haven't rung for the tea yet. And your leaving us is quite
unnecessary."

"Very well." She sat down on an unyielding chair with buttoned-in
upholstery. "But you'll not be able to make so free with each other."

"There is no need to make free," said Augusta, rather stiffly.

Mrs. Court played a tattoo on the floor with her heels. "It makes me
jumpy," she explained, "to go so long without my tea."

Augusta regarded her with disapproval. "Where is Sarah?" she asked, in
order to take her cousin's mind off her stomach.

Mrs. Court tattooed harder than ever. "Out in the rain. The girl's mad.
She quite likes to get wet. And when the sun is shining she's as likely
as not moping in the house. I call her Mole. My pet Mole." She wagged
her head, in recognition of her own wit.

"She is a very sweet girl," said Augusta, "mole or no mole. And I only
hope she and Finch will make friends."

"No boy of twenty-one will ever give a second thought to her. She's too
quiet. Boys like romps. Sometimes I call her Mouse, my pet Mouse."

Augusta was listening to a sound outside. "Here is the car!" she cried,
and hurried to meet them.

Mrs. Court squeaked, with even more alacrity, to the bell-cord and gave
it a tug.

"Bring in the tea," she said to the maid, "and we'd better have an extra
pot." She stood stock-still then, in the corner, watching the embraces
of the family.

Augusta turned to her at last. "Oh, you have rung for tea! Now you must
come and speak to my brothers and nephew. Of course you remember
Nicholas and Ernest."

They shook hands, recalling how the last time they had met had been in
London during the Coronation ceremonies of King George.

"Dear Edwin was alive then," said Augusta.

"Thomas was alive too," said Mrs. Court, not to be outdone.

They settled about the tea-table, and Augusta noted how well her
brothers looked, but she was a little disappointed in Finch's
appearance. He had the same half-starved look. It was rather hard to
reflect that this lanky youth was the possessor of her mother's fortune,
when it would have graced so well Ernest's courtly presence. Not a large
fortune, but how important in a family of such restricted means! Yet,
when Finch, sitting close beside her, on a chair too low for him, gave
her one of his affectionate looks, her heart warmed towards him and she
plied him with buttered scones. She could hardly believe she had him
here. A young man. And it seemed only yesterday when he was in his
cradle! Finch, with even greater wonder, stared about the room with its
innumerable ornaments and framed photographs. On the walls hung
water-colours of Scottish scenery painted by Sir Edwin. On the mantel
was a photograph of him looking out of pale eyes, between thin whiskers.
There was a photograph of Wake, in the starry-eyed beauty of five. There
was one of Eden and Piers in white sailor suits, with a dog between
them. On the piano, a large one of Renny on Landor, the year he had won
the King's Plate. Then there was a pretty one of Meg with Patience. And
a still prettier one of Pheasant with Mooey. Everywhere he looked he saw
photographs of Whiteoaks. Nicholas, Ernest, and Augusta in their young
and middle-aged days. Gran, as a handsome woman of fifty, in evening
dress. And what was that on the small table just beside him? _Himself_
at wild-eyed thirteen! It had been taken just after his first day's
shooting, and he held the gun, in the picture, with a terrified look. No
wonder he had looked terrified, for the very next week he had tripped
with it, when out with Piers, and nearly sent a bullet through Piers's
back. He had got a licking for his stupidity, and the gun had been taken
away from him. It was nothing short of an insult to be faced with that
picture in the moment of his arrival.

"I want you," he whispered, "to burn that awful picture of me."

"But I like it, dear. It's the only one I have of you."

"I'll have one taken for you while I'm here."

She gave him more tea, and again he whispered:

"I say, where's the girl?"

Augusta looked mysterious. "She's like you; she's devoted to Nature. She
forgets all about her meals!"

"That's a lot like me!" And he helped himself to more honey.

"I hope," he added, "that she doesn't look like her mother."

"Sh."

"But they're talking to her, one in each ear. She couldn't possibly hear
me."

"That is her aunt by marriage. Sarah is an orphan and has been brought
up by Mrs. Thomas. I must tell you about her father later."

A shower was now beating against the panes. As though coming directly
out of it, Sarah Court appeared in the doorway and came slowly toward
the group about the tea-table.

What had Finch expected? An impetuous Irish girl, late for tea because
she liked being out in the wet? A curly haired sprite, dancing in with
rain-dappled cheeks? A sturdy matter-of-fact young person? Whatever he
had vaguely expected, it was certainly not this.

She came with a long slow gait, that imparted almost no motion to the
upper part of the body. That part, held with an erectness unknown to the
present generation, moved like the torso of a statue carried on a float.
Her dark dress was open at the throat, but buttoned tightly down the
front with the effect of an old-fashioned basque, having also the effect
of that garment in a short continuation below the waist. Her skirt was
too long for fashion, and was arranged at the back in a manner
suggestive of a bustle. Her arms were held rigidly at her sides, her
hands had an extraordinary pallor. This pallor was equalled in the
profile turned toward Finch. Her black hair was brushed back from her
high forehead in glossy smoothness, and worn in a heavy braided coil at
the nape.

Finch saw that she had the Court nose, but that was not what held his
gaze with a sense of something remembered. As she was being greeted by
his uncles, who apparently had seen her as a small child in Ireland, his
mind flew here and there among his recollections of the past, striving
to fix on something that would explain this strange sense of having seen
her before. It had fastened on nothing, when he heard his aunt's voice
introducing them.

He still stood staring at her, unable to detach his mind. She came
however to him holding out her hand. Something in the gesture gave him
what he was looking for. Even as they shook hands he did not see her.
His consciousness was occupied in the attic at Jalna. He saw himself in
the lumber-room on a rainy day, crouching by the window, absorbed in old
copies of _Punch_ taken from a toppling dust-covered pile that year by
year increased, for none were ever thrown away. He was looking at the
picture of a Victorian drawing-room in which a whiskered gentleman was
bowing over the hand of a lady. Other ladies were standing by. They were
all alike, and each and all bore a striking resemblance to Sarah Court.

That was it! She was like a drawing by du Maurier.

He was so relieved by the discovery that he smiled delightedly at her.
She smiled back, and he saw how the thin, delicate lips parted, showing
unexpectedly small, even teeth. He thought he had never seen an upper
lip so short, a chin so jutting.

Mrs. Court was saying:

"Well, Mole! So you've come out, now that the sun is gone!"

Sarah Court's lips closed tightly. She fixed her eyes on a ring with a
large green stone which she began nervously to twist on her forefinger.

Her aunt leant forward, as though she would pry under the lowered lids.

"Well, Mouse! Quiet as ever?" She turned to Ernest. "I call her Mouse,
she's so silent. It's very irritating to me when I've no other
companion."

Nicholas said--"Many years ago there was a girl we called Mouse. She was
a ballet-dancer."

"Was she quiet?" asked Mrs. Court eagerly.

"No, she was rather noisy. But she'd a peaky little face, and small
bright eyes."

"I enjoy a good ballet," said Mrs. Court, "but I've no pleasure in the
Russian ballet. I hate Russian music. It's nothing but a fantastic noise
compared with Bach, or Handel, or Mozart. When Sarah begins to do the
rough-and-tumble of it on her fiddle I get out of the room. It gives me
the fidgets." And she played a tattoo with her heels to show how really
fidgety she could become.

Her niece had seated herself and continued to turn the green ring on her
finger until Finch carried a cup of tea to her. She helped herself to
bread and jam with something of the concentration of a child. Finch was
so conscious of her withdrawal, he hesitated to speak to her. However,
there was no need for conversation. Mrs. Court only stopped talking long
enough to snatch a mouthful of scone or tea, and her harsh, yet somehow
not disagreeable, voice required no encouraging response.

"Do you keep up your music?" she asked Nicholas.

"I play a little occasionally, but I notice that my hands are getting
stiff."

"Is that rheumatism?"

"I daresay."

"And you've gout, too?"

He grunted.

"Now, I wonder if your blood pressure is high?"

"Shouldn't be surprised. Nothing my body does surprises me now."

She turned to Finch. "We must get you playing. We'll make a musical time
of it."

She talked of music she had heard in the principal capitals of Europe.
"But I can't afford to travel now," she said. "I just stick at home in
Ireland. Mouse and I make our own music. Don't we, Mouse?"

How ludicrous, Finch thought, to call that remote-looking girl Mouse! He
got up his courage and said:

"You play the violin awfully well, I expect."

Her aunt had received no answer to her question and had apparently
expected none, for she continued to talk without hesitating; but Sarah
turned to Finch with a peculiar smile, with a certain elfish mischief in
it, and answered:

"You'll know that when you hear me."

It was the first time he had heard her say more than a monosyllable. Her
voice, he thought, was the very distillation of sweetness, all the more
noticeable following, as it did, the gruff tones of her aunt. And it had
a muted sound, as though a secret being within her spoke for her. He
tried to draw her into conversation, but he was awkward and she was
either shy or aloof.

He was glad to escape into the garden when the others went to their
rooms. He stood on the drive drinking in the air that was so fresh after
London, his eyes opened wide, as though they would take in, at one
extravagant glance, the scene that lay unrolled before him.

The shower had passed and a light wind was blowing the rain-clouds from
the upper sky. In the west the sun had emerged from behind piled-up
masses of snowy vapour, the fantastic shapes of which were outlined by
his brilliance. But some of this triumphant radiance was reserved for
the earth where fields and trees, wet with rain, showed their own
colours intensified to celestial brightness.

The house stood on a hill overlooking the village of Nymet Crews and,
beyond that, the fields, woods, and pastures that stretched to the edge
of Dartmoor. From the village, with its square-towered Norman church and
white cottages, there was another rise of land toward the moor, and on
this stretch every irregularity of field and meadow was outlined by the
flowering hedgerows. The pattern of it was unrolled before him like a
rich tapestry. The deep red earth of one field lay beside the pale red
of another. The tender green of pasture against the silver green oats.
The darkness of a spinny next a field of corn that held the sun. He
could see lanes, between tall hedges, threading their way to the open
moor, there to be lost. He could see, looming above all, the
hyacinth-blue contours of the Tors. The air held an almost palpable
sweetness, unknown to him, of garden flowers, of new-mown grass, of the
thousand wild flowers of the countryside and hedge, of Dartmoor itself.

Lyming Hall was an unpretentious house of no particular period, but its
gardens, lawns, and small park were kept in excellent order. Augusta was
proud of the commanding view over the countryside. The fact that there
were no large landowners about and few people of wealth gave her a
pleasant feeling of superiority.

Finch wandered among the flower-beds, discovered the tennis-court, the
rosery, and walked down the drive, which sloped steeply, to the gate.
There was a small gabled lodge half hidden in roses, so much like a
picture of a little English house that Finch had to grin with delight as
he looked at it. He turned away when he saw a woman in the door and cut
across a corner of the park to where he could see the stable.

In the stable he found only a pony which had just been given its evening
meal by a boy a couple of years younger than himself. He put his knuckle
to his forehead when he saw Finch. He had sombre black eyes and a rich
tan on his cheeks.

"Good evening," said Finch. "I came in to see the horses."

"There's only this one, zir," answered the boy. "Her ladyship just keeps
him for the lawn-mower and garden work. Her hasn't kept more than this
'un since I've worked 'ere. His name's Bobby."

Finch patted Bobby's fat flank. "I suppose he's all she needs. But
aren't there any dogs about?"

"No, zir; we had one, but he was took bad one day and died."

"Have you worked here long?"

"Two years, zir. I help Ash, the gardener."

What a nice-looking boy he was, Finch thought. He said--"I should think
you'd like a dog about."

"Yes, zir."

Finch wished he wouldn't call him "sir" quite so often. It made him feel
silly. The men about the stables at home did not treat him with great
respect. He scarcely seemed grown up to them.

"An old English sheep-dog is a nice dog," he remarked. "We have one at
home."

"Yes, zir. An old English is a very nice kind of dog."

"And Irish terriers are first-rate companions. We have one of them too."

"Yes, zir. An Irish terrier is a nice kind of dog to have."

Finch remembered Nip. "My uncle has a Yorkshire terrier. Clever little
fellow, too."

"Yes, zir. A Yorkshire terrier is a very nice kind of dog." His dark
eyes looked earnestly into Finch's. He seemed satisfied that he was
carrying on an animated conversation.

"There are spaniels too," went on Finch.

"Yes, zir. A spannel is a nice kind of dog."

Finch looked at him excitedly, trying to bridge the gulf that separated
them. "My brother has two Clumber spaniels," he said.

"Yes, zir. Two Clummer spannels must be very nice to have."

They smiled at each other. Finch turned to go. Then he stopped. "I say,
what kind of dog was the dog you had here?"

"He was a spannel, zir."

"Oh ... was he a good dog?"

"Yes, he was a spannel, zir."

"Well, I think I'll be off. What's your name?"

"Ralph Hart, zir."

Finch repeated the name to himself as he prowled among the shrubbery,
thinking how well it suited the dark interesting-looking boy. But what a
conversation! He should like to go back and do it all over again and see
if it would turn out the same way. He'd wager it would.

He found the kitchen garden. He found strawberries under netting, and
gooseberries like eggs. He came upon a door in a wall, almost hidden in
ivy, and pushed it open. He found himself in a walled flower-garden.

He went up and down the box-bordered paths, a lanky figure filled with
the joy of being alive in that warm sweet-scented enclosure. He squatted
to look into Canterbury Bells. He held moss-roses in his hand. He put
his long nose to the very earth to smell the mignonette. The pear-trees,
trained against the wall, were beautiful to him. At that moment the
orchard of pear-trees at Jalna, that carelessly covered the ground with
golden fruit every fall, seemed a poor thing. He could not decide which
roses were the most beautiful--the newly opened ones, their inner petals
still resisting the fingers of the sun, or those at that mysterious
moment of perfection, just before they fade and fall, when they seem to
be offering their essence in a final surrender so complete as to have
something of delicate vehemence in it. He thought he should like to
carry his breakfast to this garden one morning, and eat it with no one
about but the birds and Ralph Hart.

When Ellen showed him his room, he was glad to find that its windows
overlooked the walled garden. There was a can of hot water and his
clothes were laid out ready for him on the bed. He felt very happy. He
had had no idea it would be so nice at Aunt Augusta's. He wished that
Mrs. Court and her niece were not there so they might have been just a
family party.... Still, after all, Sarah Court was his cousin. But how
strange and unapproachable she was! And she had a baffling charm for
him. As he stood looking out of the window his thoughts, like curious
birds, hovered about her.

He was still looking down into the garden, where a violaceous shadow had
tempered all the brightness, when a light tap sounded on the door.
Augusta's voice asked:

"Are you dressed, dear? May I come in?"

He threw open the door and stood guiltily before her.

"I say, Aunt, I'm awfully sorry! I haven't begun to  dress; I've just
been staring into the garden. You shouldn't have given me a room with a
window overlooking it."

She sailed with kindly majesty into the room.

"I am glad you enjoy your view. It is not as pretty a room as I should
have liked for you. But you see how it was. There were four others to be
considered before you."

"Look here," cried Finch, with a violent wave of the arm, "I'd rather
have this garden under my window than a Turkish rug and a Louis Seize
bed and a Turner landscape in the room!"

"I am so glad you like it," said Augusta; but she spoke abstractedly.
She went back to the door, closed it, then sat down on the settee at the
foot of the bed. She had on a black dinner-dress and wore her
old-fashioned jewellery that was beginning to be fashionable again. She
raised her large eyes to Finch's face and said, in a tone almost tragic:

"Finch, I am in great trouble." Her voice sounded a baritone depth.

The thought of anyone's being in trouble terrified him. He was used to
trouble, Heaven knew, but his hair seemed to rise at the mere mention of
it. "Oh--what's up, Aunt?"

"Eden," she boomed, "is sitting on the doorstep."

He had an instant mental picture of Eden, rather down-at-heel but
debonair, with that insolent, veiled smile of his, lounging on the
door-sill. He could only make incoherent sounds expressing a state of
being staggered.

"That girl," proceeded Augusta, "is with him."

So Eden and Minny were both sitting on the doorstep! He could only get
out--"Well, well."

But his look of consternation was sufficient to satisfy his Aunt of his
sympathy.

"They are," she said, "living in the lodge."

The lodge! And he had walked down to it not an hour before! Perhaps the
woman he had seen in the doorway was Minny.

"But how did they get there?" he asked.

"By effrontery. As they get everywhere. You know I am attached to Eden.
I cannot help being attached to Eden. But to have him come and sit on my
doorstep, when I have Mrs. Court and Sarah in the house, is too much."

"But how did they come there? And when?" Life seemed one long surprise
for him. Now he asked himself, as he had asked himself about so many
things, can this be true?

Augusta said--"They have been there a week. Eden turned up a month ago
alone. She was somewhere in the offing, awaiting her chance to creep
onto my doorstep. He told me that he was completely out of funds, and he
asked me if he might not come and live at the lodge. I told him that the
widow of the late lodge-keeper lived there alone. She paid me no rent,
but he had been very faithful, and after his death I let her live on
there. She often came and helped about the house. Now what do you
suppose Eden's remark was after I had told him all this? His remark
was--'Can't you turn the widow out?' Did you ever hear of anything more
cold-blooded?"

"It was terrible," agreed Finch.

"It was barbarous; not only the words, but the way he uttered them. Just
a casual--'Can't you turn the widow out?' As though it were the turning
of a hen out of a coop. I spoke impressively to him. I said--'Eden, I
never thought that I should live to see the day that a Whiteoak and a
Court should suggest that a widow be turned out of doors. Whatever our
faults may have been, we have been benevolent.'" She pressed her middle
finger where her eyebrows all but met.

"What did he say to that?"

"He said nothing. He just gave that rather tired smile of his and began
to talk about his poetry. He does write really beautiful poetry, you
know."

"And what then?"

"After he'd had tea he went away. What was my astonishment, in less than
a fortnight, when the widow's daughter, who lives in Plymouth, wrote to
her mother asking her to come there to live. She is going to have
another child, and takes in lodgers, so it was altogether too much for
her."

"And did the widow go?"

"She went. And she had only been gone two days when Eden sauntered into
the garden, where I was cutting roses, and said--'Well, we've settled
in.' 'Settled in!' I almost shouted it. 'Who has settled in?' 'Me and
Minny,' he said. Just like that, without grammar or consideration. Then
he said--'We heard the widow had got out, so we've moved in.' I
shouted--'_You've moved into the lodge! You?_' And he said--'Yes, Minny
and me.' And there they've remained."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. I thought perhaps you could help me. I'm afraid
that, if I tell your uncles, they may be too severe with him. He is such
a sweet boy. Clever, like you--only so much more----" She hesitated.

"Yes, I know," said Finch.

"I shouldn't mind their occupying the lodge for a time, in the least, if
only they were married, though Minny does look very odd since she's
taken to painting her ears."

"Painting her _ears_!"

"Yes. She puts a dab of paint on the lobe of each ear. I suppose it's
living in France."

"Well, well," said Finch again. He felt as though life were really
crowding too furiously on him. He asked--"Do the people about here know
that they are not married?"

"No one knows but Mrs. Court. We have, so far, kept the fact of their
existence from Sarah. Her aunt is very particular about Sarah's
acquaintances."

"She is rather a strange girl, Aunt Augusta."

"You will not think her so strange when you are used to her...."

                  *       *       *       *       *

But her strangeness was even more pronounced at dinner. When she spoke
to him, asking him a question or two about his home, he could only feel
a sensuous pleasure in the beauty of her voice. Her words, he was sure,
revealed nothing of her. She seemed scarcely conscious that she uttered
them. Not once did she turn to look him in the face. He could study, as
often as he chose, that pale profile with the drooping, sensitive mouth
encamped between the conspicuous nose and chin. He noticed how the
candlelight lay on her breast and touched her arms as though it loved
her.

He heard Mrs. Court's voice across the table as she talked  with gusto
to Uncle Nicholas. "Fred thought he would be better off if he took the
other church as well. But it just meant that he had to get a curate; and
what with the curate, and the glebe lands being worth so much less, I
think he's worse off. He rents his fields for half what he used to, and
his hearing grows worse every year."

He longed to hear his cousin play the violin, but he could not make up
his mind to ask her. However, the evening was not far advanced when
Augusta said to Mrs. Court:

"I am hoping that you and Sarah will play for us. My brothers are too
tired for whist, but they would delight in some music. Wouldn't you,
Ernest and Nicholas?"

They would, and said they would, both addressing Mrs. Court, as though
she were to be the sole performer. She got up at once in a business-like
manner, and hurried, with her effect of being wound up, to the piano.

"Come, Sarah," she commanded, "and get out your fiddle."

Her niece rose impassively and followed her. On a window-seat near the
piano lay her violin-case. She took out the instrument and began to tune
it. Mrs. Court had seated herself and removed several bangle bracelets.

Finch did not know what he expected, but his curiosity had in it the
quality of pain. There was a subtle sense of distress in the thought of
these two women, so antagonistic in spirit as he was sure they were,
attempting to produce the exaltation or gaiety of music. He could not
tell which he despaired of most--the self-assured little marionette at
the piano or the resolute, ice-cold girl with the violin.... That chin
of hers.... God, she seemed fairly to dig it into the violin! He glanced
nervously at his aunt and uncles to see if misgiving might be evident in
their faces, but there was none. Augusta sat upright, wearing an
expression of almost overwhelming benevolence. Nicholas was frankly
sprawling in the deep chair he had chosen, his handsome hands dangling
over its padded arms. Yet, in spite of his attitude of indolence, he was
very much alive. A vivid interest was bright in his deep-set eyes.
Ernest looked suddenly wan and tired.

They played one of Handel's sonatas. The slow, gracious music rose from
the violin and piano in harmonious accord. Aunt and niece were not only
skilled performers, but they were in complete understanding.

Yet Finch's sense of pain did not diminish, but rather increased. On
Mrs. Court's side he felt too much cold energy; on his cousin's a too
docile perfection. Mrs. Court was, he felt, not playing Sarah's
accompaniment; she was dragging her by the hair of the head through the
starry realms of sound.

As they went from one piece to another (Mrs. Court never seemed to tire)
Finch became convinced that Sarah could play the violin very differently
if she had a different accompanist. Now the door of her senses was shut
fast. She was only going through certain tricks she had been taught. If
only the door were opened and her spirit set free to rejoice and to
suffer in the music of her violin! He had a scarcely controllable
longing to lift Mrs. Court bodily from the piano-seat and himself take
her place. He pictured himself as cutting Sarah's bonds, and the two of
them free, soaring together.

But it grew late and he was not even asked to play.




                                   IX


                              A DEVON DAY


                                   1

                                MORNING

Finch was woken the next morning by the sound of a man's voice shouting
orders to a dog, by the dog's barking, in his turn, orders to a flock of
sheep, by the troubled baaing of the sheep themselves, and by a gust of
wind blowing in at the window and flinging on his face the gathered
sweetness of the garden and the fields.

His eyes flew open and he saw the bright chintz of the bed-curtains, the
wallpaper with its prim birds pecking prim cherries, the white
mantelpiece with the china figure of a little lady riding a pink horse,
and two framed photographs so dim that he could not tell what they
represented.

He was in Devon, he realised, in the very depths of its deep, rich,
luxuriant roundness that lay on the earth like a nest on a bough. He was
in Devon. He was in England. He must make himself believe it, though it
seemed impossible to believe. Here he was, Finch Whiteoak, in the middle
of one of Aunt Augusta's beds, in the middle of one of her bedrooms, in
the middle of Lyming Hall, in the heart of Devon. He had travelled by
train the six hundred miles from Jalna to the New York pier. He had
crossed the ocean on a liner. He had stopped a fortnight in London. He
had travelled the nearly two hundred miles into Devon. And he had not
only done that but he had brought his two old uncles with him, paid all
their expenses out of his own money that Gran had left him, and had set
them down, safe and sound, beside Aunt Augusta. He lay still, feeling
flabbergasted at his own achievement. He wondered if other fellows felt
so surprised at the happenings of their lives. There was Piers--he had
got married, got a kid, gone through a good deal, yet he never seemed
surprised. He might look in a rage at things but not surprised. George
Fennel never seemed surprised, nor Arthur Leigh. Still, he supposed,
they kept it to themselves if they were. Just finding himself alive was
often a rather frightening surprise to him. He wondered when he would
outgrow it and rather hoped he would not, for there was something he
liked in it.

Suddenly he jumped out of bed and went to the window. It was framed in a
yellow climbing rose, the buds clinging there as thick as bees on a
honeycomb. Down in the garden, where sunlight and shadow had the sharp
distinctness of early morning, he saw Ralph Hart trimming a box border.
He wore corduroys and leggings, and his black head was glossy in the
sun. The stone wall had a peculiar golden bloom on it except where there
were patches of greyish lichen. Ivy lay thick along its top and clumps
of yellow stonecrop.

The fields beyond the wall were let to a farmer. Finch saw him now,
astride of a stout brown cob, wearing a clean linen Norfolk jacket and
breeches, a pink wild rose in his button-hole. He was so short and stout
that his legs stuck out on either side of the horse. Beneath his hat,
set at a jaunty angle, showed his round earnest face, red as a peony. In
gruff hearty tones he gave directions to two men who were trying to keep
several bullocks separated from the sheep which the dog was endeavouring
to herd through the open gate into the next field. The men ran here and
there waving their arms, the bullocks blundered, with unexpected
agility, among the buttercups, the dog barked, half beside himself with
importance, and the sheep, uttering the same cry in a variety of tones,
bundled themselves here and there, but always managed to evade the gate.
It was a vivacious scene, of which all the participants, from farmer to
buttercups, looked shining, well nourished, and in good humour.

"Devonshire cream," murmured Finch, lolling on the sill. "Devonshire
cream, that just expresses it. Gosh, if only the others were here to see
this!"

One of the others was, he remembered, just down the drive at the lodge.
If he walked down that way now he might get a sight of him, before Minny
was about, for Eden loved the early morning. He had not seen him for
more than a year and a half. Eden would be quite a cosmopolitan after
all that time in Europe. Would he be changed, he wondered. Rather
embarrassing to meet Minny under the conditions. Hot stuff, Minny; no
doubt about that.

He slid into his clothes and went downstairs. No one was about but
Ellen, industriously dusting. The door stood open and warm sunlight had
already taken the chill from the hall.

The gardener was mowing the terraced lawn. Finch stood for a moment to
watch the little white heads of the daisies leap from their stems and
fall like spray before the knives of the mowing-machine. He went to the
gardener and spoke to him, just for the pleasure of hearing the
sing-song of his Devon speech. He was a thin, youngish man with very
blue eyes, a fair skin, and not a tooth in his head. He stopped the pony
and let his eyes wander over the sweep of fields, woods, and
mist-wreathed tors that Finch had admired.

"Ay, it's a lovely voo," he said. "It's a lovely voo in all seasons. But
'tidden quite so pretty now as 'twere an hour agone when that highest
tor had just put uns head out o' mist."

"What is the name of that tor?" asked Finch, to draw him out.

"Ah," his eyes moved slowly to Finch's face, "I couldn't tell 'ee that.
He's got a name. They'm all named; but I've never seen un close by, and
I've never heerd tell."

Finch stared. "Have you never been on the moor, then?"

"No, zur. My work has allus been about here. Us sticks pretty close to
own parts hereabouts."

A heavy cart, drawn by three horses harnessed head to tail, and carrying
a forest tree, rumbled along the road below. The gardener watched it
till it was out of sight, then he said:

"Him's one of Squire Varley's trees. They'm cuttin' down a fine lot
there. Six souls are hard at it, day in, day out. Cuttin' trees."

Finch felt that if he stayed longer talking to the gardener he would not
have the strength to walk to the lodge. That rich sing-song voice, those
meditative eyes, produced in him an exquisite weakness. Soon he would
have to lie down among the daisy heads....

The whirr of the mower began again as he went down the drive. The rumble
of the cart faded in the distance. The grey trunks of the beeches on
either side of him were dappled with sunshine, and, here and there along
the hedge, a tall foxglove shook out its bells. The ground fell away so
abruptly that he looked down on the lodge. Someone was astir within, for
a blue spiral of smoke rose from the chimney. He followed the curve of
the drive to the gates and stood looking timidly at the house. He felt
very shy of meeting Minny. At last he got the courage to go up the
flagged walk, between borders of petunias and pinks, and peer in at the
window.

He saw a table inside set for a simple breakfast, the sunlight falling
on a half loaf of bread and a glass pot of raspberry jam. He saw a small
room with beamed ceiling and a large fireplace. A figure he recognised
as Eden was bent over something in a frying-pan. He was almost inside
the fireplace.

Finch entered without knocking, his canvas shoes making no sound on the
stone floor. He went and stood almost behind Eden. The room was filled
with the smell of frying bacon. A pot in which tea was brewing stood on
the warm hearth. Eden wore loose grey flannel trousers, a shirt open at
the throat, and rolled-up sleeves. Finch could see the gleam of short
golden hairs on his rounded forearms. His face looked full and healthy
but retained a certain delicate sensitiveness of expression that
prevented its acquiring an aspect of well-being. His brows were drawn
upward, as he blinked against the smoke, and the inherent melancholy of
his mouth was perhaps accentuated by the cigarette that drooped from its
corner. His hair was, as always, well brushed, with the gleam of a metal
casque.

Finch had time to take in these details, over-emphasised by the glow of
the fire, before he was discovered.

Eden, with difficulty, kept himself from overturning the bacon. "Well,
I'll be damned," he exclaimed, "if it isn't Brother Finch! So you've
come to breakfast with me!" He stood smiling at Finch. The frying-pan
tilted in his left hand, he extended the right.

"Oh, no," protested Finch, shaking hands limply, "I really mustn't! Aunt
Augusta will be expecting me. I shouldn't have come in on you like this,
so early--I think I'd better not stay." He felt flustered under Eden's
eyes.

"Sit down," said Eden, pushing him onto a chair. "You're just in the
nick of time. I'm getting my own breakfast, as you see. We'll start on
what bacon I've cooked, and I'll put on some more to fry while we eat."

He carefully divided the bacon and made his other preparations in a
business-like manner. Finch cut thick slices of the sweet crusty bread,
and felt ferocious hunger rage within him. He saw that Eden had dumped
all the bacon from the paper packet into the pan, and he thought--"Lord,
he hasn't forgotten what a pig I am!"

So they sat facing each other across the breakfast-table--another
marvellous happening to Finch. He watched a bee drift in through the
open diamond-paned casement and settle on the rim of the jam-pot. He
said:

"I say, Eden, isn't it funny that you and I should be eating breakfast
here together? To think that we'd both cross the ocean, and you'd go to
France and then come to England, and then I'd come to England and we'd
sit down at a breakfast-table here in this lodge, just like we've had
breakfast together many a time at home!" He took a large mouthful of
bread, and his young face was so thin that it made his cheek jut out
ridiculously. His eyes were bright with excitement.

"I don't see anything funny in it, except you," said Eden. "Certainly
you are Finch, wherever you go."

"Don't you think I've changed?" Shyly he hoped that Eden would say that
he had improved in appearance. Eden had never seen him in such good
clothes as he wore this morning.

Eden looked him over critically. "No, you've not changed, except for a
better hair-cut and a few glad rags. You're the same callow youth.
But"--he added quickly as he saw Finch's face fall--"believe me, you're
the flower of the flock, Finch."

"I don't see why you must pull my leg the moment we meet."

"I'm not pulling your leg. And I don't know exactly why I say it. It's
not because of your music. Perhaps it's because it seems to me that you
have the faults and virtues of the rest of us sublimated in you. You're
more of the coward, more of the hero, more of the genius, more of the
poet----"

"The poet!"

"Oh, I don't suppose you'll ever get it down on paper. And, unless I
miss my guess, more of the lover--when your time comes."

Finch drowned his embarrassment in a cup of blazing hot tea. Yet he
liked to hear himself described, especially in such extraordinary terms
as these.

"You're the peculiar flower of our peculiar flock," continued Eden. "It
looks to me as though our forbears had rampaged down the centuries for
the sole purpose of producing you, as their final flourish. Their
justification, perhaps."

There was no doubt about it now, Eden was talking to hear himself talk.
Finch glared at him. "What about you?" he demanded.

Eden smiled faintly. "Well, perhaps me too. Let's hope so."

"We're not half the men Renny and Piers are!" burst out Finch.

"No? Very well, I don't suppose we'll produce so many young. Breed so
many foals. Jump so many hurdles."

"I'd a thousand times sooner be like them!"

"Of course you would. And they'd a thousand times sooner be like
themselves. The world might have reached a state of civilisation ages
ago if that weren't always the case. People without imagination are
always cocksure, and they've been given the power of intimidating and
exhausting those who have. The man with imagination is frightened at
what he sees in himself. The thought of trying to govern others is
abhorrent to him."

Eden emptied the remainder of the milk from the jug into his teacup and
drank it. "Ever since I had that beastly lung trouble," he said, "I
drink whatever milk comes my way."

Finch had finished the bacon. He remembered Minny. "Why, look here," he
cried, "what's Minny going to have?"

"She eats scarcely any breakfast. She's getting fat, poor soul!"

"I hope she's well," said Finch timidly.

"Absolutely fit. Sleeps like a log--sings like an angel--and talks like a
fool," answered Eden, turning the loaf crumb-side down to keep it fresh
for her. "Let's go for a walk, and not waste the best time of the
morning indoors. I'll show you my favourite nook. Only mind you keep out
of it unless I'm with you."

They went through the gate into the road, two tall bareheaded figures.
Finch angular, rather slouching; Eden moving with the grace that made
people turn to look at him.

The road curved frequently, so that they seldom saw more than a short
distance ahead of them, and the height of the hedges combined to produce
in them the feeling that they were traversing one of the very veins of
summer through which flowed the energy that produced her efflorescence.
They met no soul on the road, after they had passed a man sitting
sideways on a white horse, with a basket on the crook of his arm. The
tangle of holly and ivy in the hedges glittered as though lacquered, and
against this background a thousand spring and early summer flowers were
fluttering their bright petals: pink and waxen white hedge roses, the
cuckoo flower, bird's eye, the bee-shaken bells of the foxglove, and,
clustering beneath them, the tender spears of ferns. The road was a
changeful dusky red, paling on the rise of a hill, darkening on its
fall. Above it, the sky changed without rest, white cloud and
translucent blue moving, arching, giving at one moment the impression of
tranquil nearness, at the next the aching pallor of unbounded space. A
flock of starlings cast a shadow on the road, and the beat of their
wings as they passed was like the break of a summer wave.

They had to stand close to the hedge to let a herd of red Devon cows go
by. The sweet warm smell of newly milked udders came from them, and
their humid eyes turned in indolent curiosity toward the brothers.

Eden opened a gate into a meadow across which a footpath wavered among
buttercups and clover. In a boggy corner rose the yellow spears of the
iris, and a great oak tree made a shade already sought by sheep pink
from the dipping.

They followed the path through a spinney where some young rabbits at
play paused, staring and startled for a space, before scampering to
cover. They crossed a stream by stepping-stones, and then the path
joined a lane so narrow that the trees, almost meeting overhead, turned
it into a green moist tunnel where the colours of flowers and fern were
intensified into an unreal and dreamy brilliance.

They talked little as they went, Eden pointing out this and that in
broken sentences. But, when they reached a certain gap in the hedge, he
said--"Here we are! This is my own particular spot. You see, I must
rather like you or I shouldn't have brought you here."

They passed into a grassy dell that lay at the foot of a series of
fields of barley, oats, and wheat that rose, fold upon golden fold, to
the rounded hills on which the bosoms of the clouds seemed to rest. They
stretched themselves upon the grass, and it was as though they lay at
the foot of the rich tapestry of June, unrolled on the hillsides above
them. Here were the last of the bluebells, their tender stems bending
beneath the weight of their blossoms that seemed the very distillation
of nature's thought of blueness.

Finch lay with his eyes on a level with them, as still, as empty of
remembrance as he could make himself, letting, in this instant, their
beauty pour into him. As with a catch in the breath of his being he was
suspended, knowing nothing, feeling all, as he fancied.

"I am thinking," Eden said, "of the ecstasy that bluebell must feel in
its colour--how it must push out each fibre into the soil to get more
pigment for it--how it spreads its leaves like hands to catch the
sun-rays, and, before it flowers, how it holds up its pale green bud
like a mouth towards the rain. And all of this with just one
idea--colour!"

"And yet, after all those thoughts," said Finch, "you have picked it!"

"That is my way of reaching out to get colour for myself."

"Eden, you're a queer sort of fellow."

"Yet I shouldn't be surprised if I have more pure thoughts in the
twenty-four hours than some of the people who complain that I am
immoral."

"Just what do you mean by _pure thoughts_?"

Eden rolled on to his back and let the sun shine on his face. "I mean
thoughts of men and women as happy natural beings, making the most of
every hour of their short stay here, like these flowers do or those
birds overhead--satisfied that there shall be any number of varieties of
their kind, not trying to force themselves to one dun colour or one
self-righteous squeak."

Finch grunted acquiescence. "That's just the way I feel," he said. "Only
I think you're wrong when you say that Renny has no imagination. I think
he has lots of imagination. Only he's like a spirited horse and, I
think, his imaginings rather startle him."

"Do you really? That's interesting.... By the way, how do he and Alayne
get on?"

Finch wished that Eden hadn't asked that question. Discussing Alayne and
Renny with him was too difficult. "They get on very well," he answered
hesitatingly--"that is, as far as I can tell."

"I can't imagine their getting on. No Whiteoak that ever lived could
satisfy Alayne's ideal of what a husband should be. All those
cold-blooded New England ancestors--with a few stolid Dutchmen thrown
in--are too much alive in her to make it possible for her to understand
us."

Finch felt suddenly frightened for Alayne. "But Renny's not a bit like
you!"

"Yes he is! Only where I am weak he is strong, and where I am strong
he's as weak as water."

"I've never seen any signs of weakness in Renny!"

"Have you seen any signs of strength in me?"

Finch laughed, but did not answer.

Eden went on--"Well, when you begin to look for the one you'll perhaps
stumble on the other."

"The only trouble I have noticed is that she doesn't see enough of him.
I think she often feels hurt because he spends so much time with his
horses." It was easier to discuss them with Eden than he had thought.

Eden laughed. "She may thank her stars that he does. Let them remain
distant acquaintances and passionate lovers and they may get on. Renny
couldn't be a companion to a woman of Alayne's sort. She's too
exquisitely precise. She's a very sweet-pea-ish kind of woman."

"I think that's rather good," Finch said. "There's something delicate
and alert and fragrant about her--rather like the sweet-pea, though I
know you don't intend it as a compliment."

"A woman shouldn't be like any particular flower. It grows monotonous.
She should be like a whole garden of flowers--indefinite, restful,
drugging the senses not stimulating them to irritation."

"Is that what Minny is like?" He reddened then at his own boldness.

"Minny is like a vegetable garden--nourishing, wholesome, a kind of
roughage for the soul."

"She sings beautifully."

"Doesn't she! I sometimes think when she is singing to me in the evening
that, if only she would pass away as she sings, I could adore the memory
of her forever!"

Finch considered this remark in silence. He could not follow the swift,
erratic changes of Eden's mind, the mystery of his relations with women.
He felt pity for any woman who loved Eden.... Pity, too, for a woman who
loved Renny.... And was not there something in young Pheasant to stir
one's compassion? Perhaps then it amounted to this--that any woman who
gave herself in love was to be pitied. What then of the woman who would
perhaps one day love him? Would she move another heart to pity?

He lay in the increasing warmth of the sun, his eyes gazing into the
tangle of grass blades as into a forest. At that moment it had to him
the impenetrability of a forest, above which leant the perfumed globes
of the bluebells. His lips parted and he drew the sweet air into his
mouth.... A long sigh came from Eden. Was it of content or longing?

The face of his cousin, Sarah Court, rose in his mind, fixed there as
though in a trance. Dreamily he examined it, feature by feature ... the
high white forehead under the drawn-back hair; the eyes that repelled
all warmth, yet held the light of some inner fire; the high-bridged,
narrow-nostrilled nose; the mouth, small, secret, withdrawn between that
nose and jutting chin; the full white throat developed like that of a
singer.

Hotly he wished that he were alone that he might meditate on that face,
its potentialities, in this solitude. He turned his back on Eden and lay
face downward, pressing against the tender growth of grass and flowers.

Then, with hidden face, he experienced the sensation that had come to
him at intervals for years. A form, mist-like, opaque, yet the shape of
himself, drew out from his breast, and when its entire pale length had
emerged, and it had sprung free of him, it floated near him, leaving him
empty as a sighing shell, but with a strange feeling of power, as if he
were at that moment capable of doing unimagined things. As it left his
breast it drew all sense of the _I_ away from him, and, at the same
time, all weakness. The impersonal being that was left held an
undirected, elemental strength. The strange feeling of power was there,
but with no desire to exercise it.

The sensation passed like a breath from a mirror, leaving him the
reflection of his normal self. He found his mind still dwelling on the
thought of Sarah Court. In a muffled voice he asked Eden if he had ever
seen her.

Eden answered drowsily that he had.

Had he spoken to her?

No. The old aunt saw to that. He was an outcast.

Had he really seen her face?

Yes.

What did he think of her?

Eden sat up, clasping his ankles. "Think of her? Why, I think that by
the time she's fifty her nose and chin will meet."

Finch remembered how the lamplight had glimmered on the point of her
chin, turning it to porcelain, as she stood beside the piano. He
remembered how she had held the violin a prisoner with it, seemed to dig
it into the very wood of the violin.

He said huskily--"She'd be a funny sort of girl to kiss, wouldn't she?"

"God, you'd never be able to tear yourself away from her!"

"There's something very beautiful about her too." He turned over and
faced Eden, half-shamefacedly.

"Is there?" A troubled look came into Eden's eyes. "I wish I might meet
her. I have had nothing but glimpses of her passing the lodge. She's
always going off alone. Minny can't bear the sight of her, yet she's
always routing me out of my chair to see her go by. She cries, in a
stage whisper--'For Heaven's sake, come. That old-fashioned creature is
mincing past. What a dead-and-alive profile! What skirts!' And we peep
between the curtains."

"If only you two were married, we might have some good times together.
There's a tennis-court that could be made into quite a decent one."

Eden gave a grimace that made his handsome face grotesque. "No! I tried
it once; it doesn't suit me. Talk of prostituting one's art--better that
than smothering it in the marriage-bed.... I was only twenty-three when
I married Alayne. Perhaps when I'm thirty-five I'll try it again. No man
should marry before that.... Don't you do it, young Finch!"

"This situation," said Finch, "is very worrying to Aunt Augusta. Here
you are, one might say, on her doorstep----"

"Her very expression," shouted Eden. "You've been talking me over."

"Well, that's natural, isn't it?" But he got very red. "Anyhow, there
are you and Minny at the lodge, and Aunt can't invite you to the
Hall--she can't even speak of you to her guests----"

"Because we're living in sin!" interrupted Eden. "Whereas, if we went to
a registry office where some old gaffer, probably of the most disgusting
habits, would say a few words over us and have us sign our names in a
book she'd perhaps invite us to play tennis! No--we'll play tennis on our
own kitchen-table, with two spoons and a lump of sugar, and we'll
cry--'Love all and marry none!' But I'm damned if we'll get married for
the sake of an introduction to old Mrs. Court!"

"I see," said Finch. "But it would be nice, all the same, if you were
married.... Well, since this not being married is so good for your
writing, I suppose you've done a lot of poetry this year."

Eden looked at him suspiciously. Was this youth making fun of him? But
Finch looked serious, as few can look serious. His expression was indeed
lugubrious. Eden answered, rather sulkily.

"Not a great deal. I got some good material from the libraries in Paris
for my poem of New France. But I believe my natural bent is toward
lyrics. I've had a good many published in magazines this year. Have you
seen any of them?"

"No, I scarcely ever see magazines. I'd like awfully well to hear them
though."

"Very well. The first evening you are free come in and I'll read some of
them to you.... Sometimes I think I'll attempt a novel, but I don't
believe I'd succeed. There's something in a poet turning novelist like a
beggar turning highwayman."

He offered Finch a cigarette, and they smoked in silence for a space.
The sun beat down on them hotly now, and from the hedge an unseen bird
uttered a prolonged _sweet, sweet_, then broke into a gushing warble.

Eden said--"As you know how hard up I am, there's no need for me to tell
you that I can't pay you what I owe you yet. But when this long poem's
published----"

"Look here, you're not to bother about that! I've just been wondering if
I couldn't help you a little more."

Eden's eyes, as they returned Finch's gaze, had in them a look almost of
sadness. The boy had such a kind of idiot-generosity in him, such
inimitable silly kindness, that it almost hurt one!

"That's awfully good of you," he said. "Perhaps you may. And would you
mind telling me if you've been doing things for the others too?"

It was difficult for Finch not to look proud as he replied--"Well, I
brought the uncles over here, did everything quite decently. And I'm
putting up a new piggery for Piers. And I bought a new motor car for the
family. A Dodge, this year's model. But Renny won't get into it. And
I've taken over the mortgage for Maurice and Meggie though, of course,
that's nothing, because they pay me a higher interest than I get
anywhere else. Oh, yes, and I paid for a new iron fence for the plot in
the graveyard. The old one was falling to pieces of rust."

Eden considered these various financial activities in silence while he
calculated roughly what they would amount to. He said:

"I hope you're not going to overdo this fairy godfather business, or you
may find yourself sitting on someone's doorstep along with Minny and
me."

Finch laughed. "No danger of that. I've changed Gran's investments to
much better ones. I had a frightful row with old Purvis over it. He was
for refusing to let me take it out of the Government Bonds. They brought
about four and a half per cent. Fancy! But George Fennel--he's in a
broker's office you know--advised me to put a good deal into New York
stocks. Purvis was awfully disagreeable until Renny wrote to him and
said that I was to do just as I liked. Then he gave in."

"Hmph! I don't believe Renny would care if you lost it--I shouldn't be
surprised if he were glad--if only it would bring you to heel. He'd
rather support the entire family, till they drop like rotten plums from
the tree, than have such a rival as you are now. He's extravagantly
paternal; yet here are you taking the whole family under your wing.
Snatching his rle from him. No wonder he won't ride in the car you
bought. He'd acknowledge himself as one of your pensioners. Old Redhead
isn't greedy for anything but to be chief of the clan. What else have
you invested in?"

"Nickel, and some Western stocks. And I lent ten thousand to that Miss
Trent--Alayne's friend, you know--at nine per cent. She insisted on paying
an exorbitant interest. It really makes me feel uncomfortable. She's in
the antique business. Over here to buy things. She has a stock in New
York, so there's no risk. She crossed with us, and we saw something of
her in London. She and Uncle Ernie were rather too thick to please Uncle
Nick and me. We were quite worried about him."

Eden rose.

"I think I'd like to go home," he said. "This is too much for my little
brain." He yawned and stretched his white bare arms. "But it perceives
one thing with awful clarity. You are going to sneak back to Jalna dead
broke, world-weary, with nothing but the rags you stand in, and Renny is
going to receive you with open arms. The returned Prodigal. It will be a
return quite after his own heart."

"I suppose you're remembering how good he was to you when you came
back," said Finch.


                                   2

                               AFTERNOON

That afternoon, when Augusta had carried off her brothers and Mrs. Court
to pay a call at the Vicarage, Finch went into the drawing-room and sat
down at the piano. His fingers ached to play, for he had not done so
since the day on the boat. Soon after lunch Sarah had disappeared into
the park carrying a book. The day was warm and there was a feeling of
tranquillity on the countryside, now that the first passion of young
growth was over. The trees, the fields, the flowers, the birds and
beasts had given themselves up to the sustained bliss of their fruition
with no thought of its evanescence.

Finch had drawn aside one of the mulberry-coloured curtains just far
enough to allow the sunlight to slant across the dimness of the room. He
sat with his hands on the keyboard waiting for the moment to come when
he must play. The black keys, he thought, were like black birds perched
in a row on a marble balustrade. Soon he would scatter them into flight.
They would be scattered, singing sweetly and mournfully.

He played Moszkowski's Habanera. He played with a dreamy joy. As he
finished he was aware that someone had come into the room, but, instead
of the irritation that he usually felt at an intrusion, he was glad of
this new presence. He did not look round, but sat motionless while the
harmony still lingered in the room. He was not surprised when his
cousin's voice came almost in a whisper from behind him.

"May I come in and listen?" she asked.

"Please do," he answered, still without looking round.

She came in and seated herself, her hands folded in her lap. She gave
him a little smile, but after that fixed her eyes on the scene beyond
the open window. He was able to study her face as he played.

He had never seen a face so still, so repressed, yet with a strange
eagerness. He could not decide where this eagerness was shown. Not in
the eyes with their withdrawn look. Not in the small sweet mouth with
its almost sucked-in appearance. It seemed to come from some luminosity
within or from her attitude, the posture of her arms suggesting folded
wings, aquiver for flight. Her expression did not change as he played
piece after piece, but when he ceased she said:

"Will you play with me one day?"

She spoke with the simplicity of a child, and again he was conscious of
the caressing sweetness of her voice. He thought there was a look
half-frightened in her eyes as she spoke, and he had a sudden sensuous
desire to say something brutal to her to startle her into betraying
herself. Instead, he said:

"I should like to accompany you now, if you will let me."

She got up without a word and went to the window-seat where her
violin-case lay. She bent over it, taking out the violin and dusting it
with a piece of silk that lay in the case. Then she put it under her
chin and began to tune it. She did this in a manner so aloof that Finch
began to feel nervous, wondering if he could accompany her.

"What shall we play?" he asked, turning over her music.

"Anything you like."

He found something by Brahms that he knew, but at first the going was
not easy. The rather frozen beauty of her playing seemed impossible to
merge with the fluid grace of his. It was as though a frozen lake had
said to a running stream--"Come, merge with me."

They almost gave up in despair. Then, suddenly in a waltz of Chopin,
they achieved the flow, the union of spirit for which they had been
striving. Something seemed loosed in her. A delicate flush came in her
cheeks. Finch delighted in the sense of power this gave him. They played
on and on, speaking only in hushed tones between the pieces. It was
miraculous to him that there should be such a change in her playing, and
he wondered if a corresponding change would take place in her attitude
toward him.

But this was not so. As soon as the music was over she was as remote, as
monosyllabic as before. When they heard the others returning, though,
she whispered:

"Do not tell them we played together." As she said this her face wore
the expression of mischievousness sometimes seen in the faces of women
painted by mediaeval Italian artists.

"And you will let me accompany you again?" he whispered back.

She nodded, her lips folded close, her greenish eyes glittering. She was
like a child, he thought, full of playful malice against elders who
repressed her. He heard Mrs. Court holding forth on the tepidity of
spirit displayed by the Vicar on the subject of Prayer Book Reform.
"Upon my word," she was declaring, "you might think, to hear him, that
one Prayer Book is as good as another." He heard Augusta suggesting that
they play bridge that evening. Might not he and Sarah be alone for a
while? He was going to ask her, but found himself saying instead:

"I think Sarah is a beautiful name."

She raised her brows and repeated the name after him. He thought her way
of saying it was delightful. "Sair-rah." The syllables were like sweet
stressed notes.

He continued rapidly then--"I don't believe you care for bridge. I hate
it. Would you come out to the garden for a while?"

"Perhaps."

"Why perhaps?" he insisted.

"It's always _perhaps_ with me."

"Because of...?" He gave a little jerk of the head toward her aunt.

She nodded.

"But, if she's playing bridge----"

"There's letter-writing. We have thirty-two regular correspondents. I
write most of the letters."

He was too astonished for words. He came of a family who seldom wrote
letters except on business. It had frequently been a matter for dispute
who was to write the monthly letter to Augusta. He had sent a picture
postcard to each member of the family from London. He had had no word
from home. Ernest had had a letter from Alayne, and often said that he
must answer it.

"If there's nothing to do I'll come," she said. Then she moved away and
went to Nicholas, listening attentively to what he had to say.

When Finch and Nicholas happened to be alone for a moment before dinner,
Nicholas said:

"That girl has her father's face; but Dennis Court was a devil, and I'm
afraid the aunt has brought her up to be a prude."


                                   3

                                EVENING

They entered the garden through a door in the wall that was half hidden
in ivy. The door was not easy to open, and, when they were inside, Finch
left it ajar. It was not dark, nor would it be that night. Across the
clear primrose yellow of the west were two bars of purple cloud fringed
with crimson. The pale new moon stood aloof, like a young singer
standing in the wings timidly awaiting her summons to the stage. An
ancient oak tree, its trunk embowered in ivy, its every branch and twig
hoary with lichen, towered just beyond one of the garden walls. In it a
number of rooks were gathered and seemed to be enjoying the wind from
the south that tossed its lesser boughs. The birds leaped into the air
and, after a few powerful strokes of the wing, allowed themselves to
drift or tumble back into the green shelter. A linnet, perched among the
branches of a peach tree trained against the wall, sang a thin plaintive
strain that could be heard when the rooks silenced their cries for a
space. The flower-beds seemed to have drawn closer together, as though
in a concerted effort to overpower by their perfume the senses of any
who walked in the garden. And above the scent of the rose and the
heliotrope there ascended the heavy somnolent sweetness of the
nicotiniana.

Sarah Court wore a flame-coloured shawl, the deep fringe of which almost
touched the ground behind. The shawl made her look proud and Spanish, he
thought, and he remembered having heard his grandmother say that, in the
days of Queen Elizabeth, one of the Courts had married a Spanish woman.
He suddenly had a picture of Renny in his mind--Renny with a pointed
beard and a high ruff that suited him well. He smiled to himself and saw
that she was peering around at him with curiosity. He had wondered what
he could talk to her about. Now he said:

"I was thinking of my eldest brother. I wish you could know him. He's
such a splendid fellow. It is strange that just now there was something
in you that reminded me of him."

"Something _splendid_?" she asked.

"Yes. Something very proud and rather splendid."

"But I'm not proud!"

"But you have a look of pride."

"I have nothing to be proud about." After a moment she added--"And every
reason to be humble."

She was walking slowly along a narrow box-bordered path, and Finch,
following her, was conscious of pride in her every movement, in her
manner of wearing the Spanish shawl, and in the restrained musical tones
of her voice.

When they reached the end of the path he looked into her face. "I'm glad
you were able to come out," he said. He was glad that she had come, but,
in truth, he would have been still more glad to be in the garden alone
at this hour, or with some companion of whose presence his nerves were
not so aware.

Her lip curled in the same smile of a malicious child as when in the
drawing-room. "My aunt gave me enough letters to write to keep me busy
till bedtime."

At that they were drawn nearer each other. She began to caress the
flowers of a yellow rose bush and to press her face into them with an
almost cruel eagerness.

"What a lot of hair," he thought, looking down at the mass of glossy
braids covering the back of her head. "And she holds the roses to her
exactly as she holds the violin." He remembered what Eden had said about
being kissed by her.

He would have liked to summon the romantic valour to make love to her.
He could not even picture the possibility of doing so in the future. Her
air was too self-concealing. She was too exquisitely removed from him.

Through the door in the wall he saw two figures passing, hand in hand.
He recognised the gardener's boy, Ralph Hart, but the girl's face was
just a disc of white.

The boy dropped the girl's hand and came to the door. It was supposed to
be bolted at that hour, and he was surprised at finding it ajar. Finch
went to him.

"I shouldn't have left that door open. But I'll not forget to shut it
when we leave. Perhaps you'd better shut it now and we will go out by
the gate."

As he spoke he tried to see the girl's face, curious to know what sort
of sweetheart the boy had chosen. But she drew away, shyly averting it.

"I'm sorry I came to the door, zir," said Ralph; "but in the dimsey I
didden see 'ee in the garden. Us thought it were left open by mistake."
He touched his cap and went after the girl.

Finch shut the door. The noise of its closing frightened the rooks, and,
with hoarse caws, they rose from the oak and sailed in close formation
toward the afterglow. The linnet in the peach tree hushed his song,
listening till he believed all was well again, then once more his
pipings and flutings filled the garden, not in the intervals of the
clamour of rooks, as before, but in full and confident possession.

There was a seat like a tall, narrow church-pew between two clipped yew
trees, and they seated themselves on it. Finch began to tell her about
his family. She listened with absorbed interest, and, as he described
each one in turn, his heart warmed to them, their imperfections
dwindled, and he could hardly find words to describe Renny's spirit, his
horsemanship; Piers's courage, his knowledge of farming; Wake's
gentleness and precocity; Meg's--oh, well, Meggie was perfect! He almost
made himself homesick talking about them. Eden alone he did not mention.

"You have so many," she said, "and I have no one. I mean of my very
own."

"Will you tell me something of your life?" he asked gently. "I'd like to
be able to picture you in Ireland."

She made a disdainful movement of her shoulders under the bright shawl.
"My life is nothing but practising, paying calls, and writing letters."

He was hurt by her inclusion of practising with calls and
letter-writing. He said--"But you love music, don't you?"

"Never till to-day."

He felt what this implied through all his nerves. Yet--to have learned to
play so beautifully, and not have learned to love it, to find sanctuary
in it.... The thought almost repelled him. He felt something insensate
in her. What had to-day's awakening signified then? That she had
suddenly become conscious of the sensuous release in music? He asked:

"Didn't you care for it before you went to live with your aunt?"

"I never thought about it."

She talked so little he was driven to catechise her.

"Were you left an orphan young?"

"My mother died when I was seven."

"Mine, too."

"How strange." ... Her tone was musing, rather than impressed by the
coincidence.

"And your father?" Well, she was his cousin; he had the right to
question her!

"When I was thirteen." She turned towards him (the moon was now giving
just enough light to etherealise her features) and began to speak
rapidly. "He was drowned. He and I had lived alone after my mother died.
Our house was on the sea coast. He was very fond of horses--like your
brother Renny--but he drank a good deal. And he brought strange people to
the house. I don't mind telling you that I liked them. Much better than
Aunt Elizabeth's friends. Father was always boasting about his horses.
Especially a mare called Miriam which had saved his life in a flooded
stream once. When he had been drinking, he'd boast of the great distance
she could swim. One night he and his friends began making bets about it.
To prove what she could do, he led her to the shore, and his friends
went with him. He mounted her and rode her out into the sea. It was like
glass, and there was moonlight. She swam on and on, with him on her
back, and he shouted and sang. At last his friends were frightened and
screamed to him to come back, but he only sang the louder. They heard
the mare whinny. Before morning a storm came up, and the next day his
body and the mare's were driven ashore by the waves."

"How appalling! And were you alone in that house?"

"Yes; but I watched the people on the shore from a window. The peasants
said it was a terrible sight to see the great waves dash the mare
against the cliff. My father's feet were caught in the stirrups. They
said the mare would rear and her hooves clatter against the rocks, as
though she were alive."

Finch remembered having heard the family talk of this tragedy when he
was a child, but he had thought of it as having happened many years
before. The story had seemed too fantastic. The Dennis Court, of whom he
remembered his grandmother exclaiming, "Ah, there was a real Court!" had
seemed almost a myth.... And now here was he, Finch, sitting on a
garden-seat beside Dennis's daughter, while she repeated the story of
his death in unemotional tones.

Keeping his own voice as level as hers, he said:

"And after that you went to live with Mrs. Court, I suppose. It was a
great change."

She answered, with a touch of bitterness--"Yes. A change for the better
everyone thought. No one seemed to remember how I had adored my father.
It's true enough that I can never repay her for all she's done for me.
All the lessons, the travelling. But she made me practise six hours a
day, and, when we travelled, I never had a moment to call my own. Now we
don't travel. She can't afford it. And, if I'm quiet or go off by
myself, she calls me _Mouse_ and _Mole_!"

He had not hoped for any intimate companionship such as this, had not
dreamed that she would reveal anything of her inner self to him. Now he
found that he could not keep pace with her careless and cold
revelations. He would have liked to escape from her at that moment to
brood on her mystery without the necessity of making talk. Yet she
seemed not to expect comment from him, and, when he uttered a lame
sentence or two, she made no reply but withdrew into her former
immobility.

The young moon had passed behind a tall elm, and, as the branches were
tossed in the wind, moonlight fell fitfully into the garden,
illuminating now one flower-bed, now another, now casting its silver
veil on Sarah's face and hands.

Looking at her hands, like the hands of a silver statue, and remembering
how they drew the music from her violin, he longed to touch them.
Timidly he laid one of his own upon them. They were very cold.

"I'm afraid you are cold," he said nervously. "I think we had better
walk about. Would you like that?"

She rose at once without answering him. They went through the
garden-gate, along a stone-paved passage, and crossed the tennis-court.

"Do you play tennis?" he asked, and he wondered if her reason for rising
so abruptly had been her desire to put aside the touch of his hand.

"A little. I wish I played better."

"I will see if I can get Aunt Augusta to have the court put in order."

She gave one of her small malicious smiles. "Perhaps we could get the
two at the lodge to join us. I'd like that."

He looked round at her, startled. "Would you really? I didn't think you
knew of their existence."

"I only wish I could meet them! I've passed the lodge time and again,
wanting to speak to them. But all I saw was the curtain moving, as
though they were peering out at me, thinking how horrid I was."

"Well," he said, frowning in anxiety at what he was going to suggest,
"we might go and call on them now, if you're not afraid of offending
your aunt."

"I don't mind offending her in the least," she replied coolly, and
turned in the direction of the drive.

She walked quickly, as though she were doing something eagerly
anticipated. They passed in and out of shadow and moonlight, her bright
shawl flaming and darkening like the plumage of an exotic bird.

Half-way down the drive he offered her a cigarette, which she at first
declined, then suddenly accepted, saying--"Yes, give me one! I'll do
everything to-night that Aunt would hate."

He had only to see her put it in her lips and light it from the match he
held to know that she was well accustomed to smoking.

He looked at her almost sternly, for he felt something devious about
her. "When do you do it?" he asked.

"When I am being Mole." And she held up a thin forefinger with a swarthy
stain on it.

They found Eden sitting in the porch of the lodge on a tilted chair,
like a workman after his day was done. He regarded their approach with
an incredulous smile, then got to his feet.

"I've brought our cousin, Miss Court, to see you," said Finch, feeling
suddenly dare-devil and at his ease. Was it the support of Eden's
presence that produced this feeling?

They shook hands gravely, and Eden led the way indoors. Finch had heard
Minny scampering upstairs to tidy herself. Yet, when she came down, he
wondered what the process of tidying had been, she looked so far from
neat. He came to the conclusion that she had gone to powder her face,
which had the pink bloom of a peach in the candlelight. Her milk-white
neck looked thicker than when he had seen her last, her crossed legs,
under her too-short skirt, stouter. But her slanting eyes held the same
challenge and gaiety, and her lips looked ready as ever to part in
laughter or song. She had on an orange-coloured jumper, a blue skirt,
and "nude" stockings. Finch wondered how Eden could tolerate this
combination of colours. But then, Eden seldom seemed to notice things.

Minny made Sarah sit in the one comfortable chair, close to the fire,
because she looked so pale. Minny's own cheeks glowed beneath the thick
layer of powder. Her generous mouth smiled welcome, and this astonished
Finch after what Eden had told him of her feelings toward Sarah. Sarah
spread out the long fringe of her shawl and inhaled the smoke of her
cigarette as though she were inhaling the very sweetness of life. She
preened herself like a bird, and Minny was apparently delighted to
entertain her. Eden too was delighted. He was beginning to feel the need
of some society other than Minny's. He heaped dry faggots on the fire,
which crackled into swift ruddy flames. He sat down on the narrow
ingle-seat facing Sarah. He thought Finch's description of her very
superficial. He read her with a far more subtle understanding.

Minny talked a great deal, directing almost all her conversation to
Sarah, who sat motionless, seeming to drink in all that Minny said. She
told of amusing things that had happened to them abroad, now and then
appealing to Eden's memory to supply some foreign name which she
invariably mispronounced. Before long she began to speak of Eden's
poetry, of which she was very proud. It was the only poetry, she said,
that she had ever been able to read, even though so much of it was hard
to understand. Finch reminded Eden that he had promised to read him some
of the poems he had written since leaving home.

Eden took a candle and went up the stairs that ascended from a corner of
the room. Minny said--"He keeps everything he has in such perfect order."
Soon he returned, carrying a folio of papers. Hot wax had dripped on his
hand, and he went to Minny like a child to show it.

He sat again in the ingle-nook and read by the light of the flames. His
voice, always musical, took on new, full tones when he read his poems.

"These are some bits from the long poem 'New France.' I can't read all
of it. It's not in order," he said.

He read fragments which he called--"Indian Braves as Galley Slaves," "The
Loves of Bigot," "A Countess of Quebec," and "Song of the Ursuline
Nuns."

The two young women made little murmuring noises of approval after each
poem. Finch liked them immensely and said so. He was almost overcome
when Eden said suddenly to Sarah--"Do you know, this boy has been paying
my way for a year and a half. If it had not been for him I don't know
what I should have done."

"That was good of him," she said simply. "But how he must have liked
doing it!"

"Did you like doing it?" Eden asked of him.

Finch assented, uttering the sudden guffaw of his hobbledehoy days,
which still came from him in moments of embarrassment.

"These," said Eden, taking up some sheets of paper clipped together,
"are some things I wrote in Italy."

"In Italy!" gasped Finch. "Why, I didn't know you were in Italy!"

"Yes, I had to go. It was beastly cold in France and I'd got a cough."

"We went on a cheap excursion," put in Minny, easily.

"How splendid!" sighed Finch. "How I wish I might go!"

"Don't be a silly young blighter," said Eden. "You can go where you
like."

"Perhaps I'll go with Arthur Leigh. He's over here."

Sarah looked expectantly into Eden's face, waiting for the poems. He
read three. The last one was "To a Young Nightingale Practising his Song
in Sicily." His listeners agreed that this was best of all.

"It's beautiful! It's beautiful!" said Sarah, clasping her fingers
tightly together. The shawl fell from her, as she leaned toward Eden,
and her bare shoulders and arms were exposed to the firelight.

Eden was made happy by this approval. Soon he and Minny went to the
larder together. Their whispers and the clink of china could be heard by
the other two.

"Do you like them?" whispered Finch. "Are you glad you came?" He was
worried lest her aunt might have missed her.

She nodded composedly.

Eden and Minny returned, he carrying a bottle in each hand, and she a
large dish on which were arranged several sorts of cake, the icing of
which, chocolate and pink and white, had crumbled and were
intermingling.

Eden was hilarious at having company. Nothing was too ridiculous for him
to say or do. Finch and Minny filled the room with their laughter. Sarah
Court sat upright, sipping wine, nibbling cake, seeming to absorb with
passionate intensity the gaiety of the moment.

As they hurried home along the drive they faced a strong warm wind from
the moor. She had to grasp her shawl tightly to hold it about her. Their
elders were still playing whist and they entered undiscovered. She
glided up the stairs, while he lounged into the drawing-room and leant
against Augusta's chair, asking her what luck she had had.




                                   X


                            OLD LOVE AND NEW

The days strung themselves out like pearls warmed on the sunburnt throat
of summer, till Finch and his uncles had been a month in Devon. The time
had passed quickly for the two old brothers, with no incident more
unpleasant than a wrangle at the bridge-table to shadow their enjoyment.
There was so much to do in the way of garden-parties, paying calls on
old acquaintances, drinking tea in the rose garden, and having the
_Times_ to read when it was a few hours instead of two weeks old, that
the day was all too short. The change had done them a world of good.
Nicholas had not in years been so free from gout. Ernest was almost
frightened by the power of his digestion. There seemed something
sinister about a stomach that, from rebelling at a piece of seed cake at
tea, turned to the consumption of strawberries and Devonshire cream
without a qualm. Ever since his meeting with Rosamond Trent his
digestion had improved, and it had crossed his mind that if such
meetings could be arranged once in, say, six months, the benefit to him
would be immense. He attributed his improvement to nothing else than the
exhilaration of contact with this vigorous and highly efficient
personality.

He and Nicholas were both fond of music, and they delighted in the
violin and piano playing of Sarah and Mrs. Court. Nicholas thought the
girl's playing was without soul, and it was he who insisted that Finch
should accompany her one evening. But the performance was a depressing
failure. Finch was unaccountably nervous, and Sarah more soulless than
ever. Mrs. Court had sat delightedly tapping her heels on the floor
while they had spiritlessly executed a Polonaise by Chopin.

At the end she had exclaimed:

"Sarah can't play with anyone but me! And Finch is far too nervous to
play accompaniments. You've got to have nerves of iron to play
accompaniments. I've never heard you do so badly as you did to-night,
Mouse."

The little woman had trotted eagerly to the piano, scarcely waiting till
Finch had risen from the seat before she settled herself on it and
instructed Sarah to repeat the Polonaise with her. Sarah had repeated it
to the brilliant exactitude of her aunt's accompaniment, and after that
no one again suggested that the boy and girl play together.

But they did play together. Every afternoon that their elders went out
to tea, and they went about four out of the seven, Sarah and Finch
glided like two conspirators into the drawing-room. They went as though
to indulge in the taste of some forbidden wine. He trembled as he sat
with bent back above the keyboard while she tuned her violin. As they
lost themselves in the indolent beauty of a Tchaikovsky waltz the world
about them dissolved. Their life came into flower. But no word or sign
of love passed between them beyond the expression of their love for
music. On the days when they were not alone together she seemed to go
out of his life, leaving him scarcely a thought of her beyond the
fascination her face and her attitudes always had for him. Even
sometimes when they had played together he left her presence with a
feeling of relief, drawing a deep breath, as though he had come from an
atmosphere too close for him. But at times he was so susceptible to her
nearness, to something captivating and strange in her, that he would
find it hard to restrain himself from some open expression of his
emotion. Once a mist came before his eyes when he was accompanying her,
and he could not see the notes. He stopped playing, and, after a wild
cascade of grace-notes, she stopped too.

"I lost my place," he muttered.

She bent over him, her violin still tucked under her chin, and looked
into his eyes with a gently curious expression. Yet he thought he
detected the same hint of malice in her that he had encountered before.
He stared steadily back without speaking, but his heart was beating
wildly, and he was on the point of taking the violin from her hands and
possessing himself of them when she straightened herself and, pointing
to the place with her bow, said coldly:

"Please don't waste our time! It goes so quickly."

He wondered whether she were really repelling him or regarded these
meetings only as an outlet for the sensuous enjoyment of music.

Once Nicholas did not go with the others as they imagined he had. Coming
down from his room he turned, with a feeling of anticipation, towards
the drawing-room at the sound of music. He opened the door softly, not
wishing to interrupt them, but, after listening for a few moments and
studying the expressions of the two, he withdrew as quietly as he had
entered, standing outside the closed door until the piece was finished,
with bent head and a look of sardonic gentleness on his lined face.

Though he had been conscious of the uneasy joy within the room, he never
made any reference to their playing together. He never intruded on them
again, and he often suggested afternoon excursions that would set them
free.

Mrs. Court would have liked to insist on Sarah's accompanying them, but
to have taken her would have meant discomfort in the car. She gave her
endless letters to write, and stuffy, old-fashioned dresses to alter to
keep her busy in the evenings. These Sarah did, sitting up late in her
room, having previously put out her light and pretended to go to bed.

Augusta, at this time, began to be a little tired of her guests. The
constant strain of ordering meals, to say nothing of the expense of
providing them, was beginning to tell on her nerves. She had thought
that Mrs. Court would see eye to eye with her in her hope for the union
of Sarah and Finch. She had broached the subject before his arrival, and
it had been received with Mrs. Court's customary jaunty good-humour. But
now Augusta was driven to believe that Mrs. Court did not approve of the
match at all, that she selfishly wished to keep the girl unmarried in
order that she might have not only a companion whose salary consisted of
her clothes and keep, but one of striking appearance and artistic
attainments. The young pair themselves were not very satisfactory. They
seemed to have nothing to say to each other, and the music which she had
hoped would draw them together was apparently a barrier between them.
His attempt at accompanying Sarah had been a failure, and when Sarah and
Mrs. Court made music Finch sat drooping in a corner, the picture of
gloom.

Nicholas, too, was on her nerves. They could not be long together
without his having this effect on her. His untidy hair and slovenly
habits irritated her as much as Ernest's neatness pleased her. More than
once he had caused her dismay by his apparently unconscious imitation of
their mother. He had made sops of his cake in his tea. He had rumbled at
table--"I want gravy. More dish gravy, please," in their mother's very
tone. She and Ernest had given each other a look. Another time he had
said--"Why doesn't that young whelp at the lodge come up to see me? I
want to see Eden!" At this Ernest and she had been positively
frightened. Ernest had counselled her to pay no attention to this vagary
of Nick's. "Just ignore him," he had advised, "and he'll grow ashamed of
himself." But they had an uncomfortable feeling that Nick knew their
ignoring was a pretence and that he was unashamed.

When whist was being played in the evening it became the custom for
Sarah and Finch to meet in the garden. They entered it by the door, and
Finch usually left it ajar so that he might see the gardener's boy and
his girl pass, hand in hand. Ralph no longer troubled about the closing
of the door. A quiet understanding had arisen between the two youths. No
day passed without their talking together for a little. Finch learned
that Ralph's mother was a Cornishwoman and that the men of his family
had followed a seafaring life. Sarah had found out that the girl was a
kitchen-maid, thick-set, round-faced, stolid. She had spoken to her
once, but could scarcely make out what she said, for she came from a
farm and spoke in broad Devon.

The rustic love affair had a peculiar fascination for the two who sat on
the garden-seat. They discussed the lovers, their regular walking out
together; and Finch repeated fragments of his conversations with Ralph,
trying to imitate the sing-song of his speech. They would sit silent in
the dusk, thinking of the other two in the dusk somewhere unseen,
perhaps kissing, embracing, and they took a sensuous mournful pleasure
in reflecting on their attachment.

Sometimes they went to the lodge, where they were very welcome to Eden
and Minny, who were often bored by each other's society. They would
gather about the fire, and Eden would throw pine boughs on it that burst
into a vivid crackling blaze, illuminating their faces and the black oak
beams of the ceiling, then die down, leaving the pine needles like fiery
wires. The twigs would writhe in worm-like agony, pale, turn grey, and
crumble. Then Eden would throw on fresh boughs.

Before the fire he read his new poems to them, directing his voice
towards Sarah, but Minny showed no sign of jealousy. She seemed
perfectly sure of Eden. He said once to Finch, as they lay talking on a
hillside--"Minny is kind. That's the beautiful thing about her. Alayne is
unselfish, but she isn't really kind; and love without kindness is like
a garden without grass...."

One evening a knock came at the door, and they looked at each other like
frightened children, fancying it might be Mrs. Court in search of Sarah,
for Finch had told Eden of her tyranny. But it was Nicholas and Ernest
come to call. Nicholas and Augusta had had words over the whist-table,
and the game had been broken up. The two ladies had gone to Augusta's
room, and the two gentlemen, feeling rather reckless, had marched down
to the lodge. They showed no surprise at seeing Finch and Sarah there.

Minny was delighted by so much company. Nicholas and Ernest found the
society of the young people so exhilarating that they felt aggrieved at
the time they had lost on the evenings at whist. They asked Minny if she
still could sing. She denied that she could, laughing a good deal. But,
persuaded at last, she threw back her head and sang one piece after
another to them. She had an endless repertory of old favourites. Her
face was tilted as she sang, so that it was partly in shadow, but the
full light of the fire fell on her white, throbbing throat, the skin of
which was like the inner petals of a rose.

On the way back to the house Sarah whispered to Finch that now her aunt
would find out everything and their evenings would be spoiled. Luckily
for them a change in the weather came that night, and for several days
they had driving rains and a gale from the moor. In the evenings the
uncles asked for nothing better than a game of whist by the fire.

One morning Ernest announced his intention of going into Dorset to visit
some old friends. That same day Finch had a letter from Arthur Leigh,
and, remembering how much Augusta had admired Arthur, he conceived the
idea of having him down for a visit during his uncle's absence. He might
have Ernest's room, which was really the best guest room. Augusta,
wondering if she would ever have the felicity of feeling somewhat lonely
again, agreed. Inside a few days Ernest had gone, his room had been
"turned out," and Arthur had taken his place.

The friends were joyful to be with each other again and with an
opportunity for intimacy they had hitherto not known. Finch had
forgotten how subtly attuned to his surroundings and how full of charm
Arthur was, and Arthur felt anew the curiosity and sympathy Finch roused
in him. He thought the household rather a strange one, including its
offshoot in the lodge. Most of all, he was interested in Sarah Court.

At his coming she had withdrawn into her former aloofness, and it was
difficult to make Arthur believe that she had gone on secret visits to
the lodge, continually deceiving the aunt to whom she now seemed so
devoted. But one afternoon, when the three young people were left alone,
Finch persuaded her to play her violin for Arthur. And from that time
there seemed to be engendered in him, almost against his will, a
passionate interest in her. From being high-spirited and gay he became
meditative and morose. She appeared to be unconscious of the emotion she
had roused in him. This change in his friend, taking place so soon after
his advent into the house, was bewildering to Finch.

Augusta had had the tennis-court put in order, and the daughter of the
Vicar was invited to make a fourth at tennis. She was an athletic girl,
with a blistered skin, who moved in long strides. Beside her the rigid
yet gliding movements of Sarah seemed singularly out of place on the
tennis lawn. Mrs. Court viewed with delight her incapacity for playing
even a fairly good game.

"I never saw such a girl!" she would cry. "There's nothing spry about
her. I call her my puppet." And sometimes she would exclaim--"Well
played, Puppet!"

Sarah seemed as impervious to her aunt's ridicule as she seemed
unconscious of Leigh's feeling for her. He and she always played on
opposite sides, and the games usually turned out to be only a contest
between Finch and the Vicar's daughter.

After the game he and she would discuss the various plays while the
other two sat silent, Arthur hitting at the turf with his racquet, while
his large grey eyes were fixed on Sarah's profile, as she sat gazing
straight before her into untroubled space. She had been taught never to
sit on the grass without something beneath her. She carried to the court
a red woollen shawl, which Arthur spread out for her, and on it she sat
isolated while the rest sprawled on the grass.

Finch was so conscious of Arthur's unease that he scarcely knew what he
said, still he managed to talk in a desultory fashion while his mind was
occupied with the problem of his friend's sudden infatuation. Was it
really love that Arthur felt for Sarah, or had she merely exercised on
him the peculiar fascination that seemed to be the very core of her
personality? Finch himself had felt it. He had seen its effect on Eden.
But in their case the spell was volatile, intermittent. Once Sarah had
entered a room, neither the room nor its occupants remained the same. By
the power of her chiselled remoteness she subdued their atmosphere. By
the suggestion of hidden malice she produced a sense of foreboding. The
more Finch observed aunt and niece, the more sure he was that Mrs. Court
felt both the fascination and the foreboding. He began to think that her
jeering attitude toward Sarah was assumed in an effort to reassure
herself, as young Mooey reiterated--"I'm not f'ightened!"

He was angry with Arthur for allowing himself to be so speedily
enslaved. He was angry with Sarah for being the enslaver. He felt in
himself a stirring of jealousy that clouded the clear waters of his
friendship for Arthur. Sarah and himself, who had been drifting in a
shadowy and devious intimacy that might have led to strange and lovely
revelations, were separated by Arthur's intrusion, for as such Finch
began to regard his visit.

In the mornings, when Sarah was in attendance on Mrs. Court, Arthur
Leigh sought out Eden, and they spent hours wandering in the flowery
lanes, over the hillsides rich with ripening corn, and into the
gorse-grown borders of the moor. Arthur could not say enough in praise
of Eden. He confessed that with no one else had he ever experienced such
a sensation of magnetic accord. As for Eden's poetry, if Eden belonged
to any other country he would have met an appreciation not yet given
him. He was worried over Eden's future, and was too appreciative to
please Finch when Finch said that he would never let Eden suffer for
lack of funds. Eden was his own brother, and he did not see why Arthur
should take such a possessive note toward him. He began to pity himself.
Eden did not want him, Arthur did not want him, Sarah no longer sat with
him in the garden. He took to sitting there alone, and had long
conversations with young Ralph, who confided to him that one day he
hoped to marry the kitchen-maid with whom he walked out. "But," he had
confided, "her's the oldest of a long family and must help her mother
for a bit, and I'm the youngest of a long family and must help my mother
till one of my brothers can afford to have her live with he."

Nicholas planned an excursion, in which he invited the three young
people to join him. It was supposed to be merely the revisiting of a
hamlet in the moor that had once pleased him. It was a rough drive that
neither Augusta nor Mrs. Court cared to undertake. In reality he did not
want them to know what he was about. This was to revisit the old home of
the wife from whom he was divorced. He had heard of the death of her
brother, who had lived there, and that the contents of the house were to
be privately sold. He had spent some of the happiest days of his life in
this house, when he was courting Millicent, and he had a sentimental
desire to walk through its rooms once more. He confided his intention to
his companions, with a half-cynical air, and yet with enough seriousness
to make them feel both compassion and a romantic interest in the visit.

It was a day of alternate brilliant sunshine and flying cloud shadows.
Their road lay, for the greater part of the way, along the ridges of
rolling hills from where they could see a wide stretch of country where
the green and gold pattern of the fields was blotted here and there by
rounded clumps of woodland. High Willhayes and Yes Tor rose, alternately
purple against the clouds or dim blue beneath the sunshine. The house
where the Humes had lived was in a remote spot on the edge of the moor.
Bracken and gorse grew to the very edge of its lawn, and behind it a
small but noisy cascade rushed down a miniature gorge.

The house and all its outbuildings were of grey stone, very old, but
quite bare of ivy and unsoftened by protecting trees, so that it gave
the impression of bleakness. The many windows were small and the front
door was sunk inhospitably between stone projections.

As they left the car and went toward the house the sun passed under a
cloud. A wind from the moor began to whistle above the tumble of the
cascade. Arthur and Finch showed their disappointment in their faces.
They did not see how there could have been much jollity in that house.
Even Nicholas, whose eyes had been alight with eagerness, looked
rebuffed. He knocked on the heavy brass knocker. The door was opened by
a tall stout man with a ruddy face, who had the place in charge. He was
expecting them. He led them into the dismantled drawing-room. Surviving
relatives had taken what they wanted from the house, and on tables were
displayed in forlorn groups the ornaments and silver for sale. Light
patches stood out on the wallpaper where pictures had been taken down.
Furniture that had been long ago consigned to the attic had been carried
downstairs by the agent in charge as being valuable, and the pieces thus
reunited stood about the rooms, with the sad, hopelessly estranged air
of old friends who have not met for half a lifetime.

The last Hume had been dead for only a month, yet there was an
accumulation of dust in the house that might have been collecting during
the seven generations of their occupancy. As they moved from room to
room it seemed that some gloomy revelation of the past might be
presented to them at any moment. Nicholas became more and more
depressed. In a small room that had apparently been used as a study he
found a framed photograph of a cricket team at Oxford wearing striped
blazers, flat straw hats, and little side whiskers. He drew Finch to it
and pointed out himself and his brother-in-law, the Hume who had lately
died. Finch thought he should like to have this for himself, and bought
it from the agent for three shillings. With it under his arm he followed
Nicholas through the dining-room into the kitchen. They left Leigh and
Sarah examining an old brass-bound writing-case. A new intimacy seemed
to enfold them.

The kitchen was the largest room in the house. The low ceiling was
heavily beamed, the floor was of uneven stone, and the deep windows gave
on a cobbled yard beyond which were the gabled stone stable, the
shippen, and linhays. A long table, with benches on either side, filled
one end of the room. At the other end was the fireplace and, at right
angles to it, a high-backed settle. On the hearth lay a pair of heavy
boots stained with mud, and on the settle a worn leather coat and a hat.
These garments, belonging to the dead man, added the final touch of
desolation to the scene. For the first time in his life Nicholas felt
that he heard the portentous creak of the gates of death.

The agent and two people, a man and a woman, were talking in subdued
tones before a cupboard filled with china. They were half-hidden by the
settle.

Suddenly the woman raised her voice on a note of energy and exclaimed:
"I really must have those adorable glass bottles, and, of course, the
Toby jugs! What do you say; do you think I ought to buy the cupboard
itself?"

Nicholas reared his head as might an old lion who hears the voice of the
hunter. He listened and heard what he expected--the mellow tones of his
brother Ernest! Ernest and Miss Trent were there in quest of antiques!
It was too horrible. His gorge rose at the thought. Ernest must have got
wind of the sale, sent word to Miss Trent, and the two come post haste
after bargains. Finch heard too and could not help approving of their
sagacity, considering what he himself had at stake in Miss Trent's
enterprise.

Nicholas grasped him by the arm and dragged him from the room. In the
passage he glared at him, the deep downward lines of his face
accentuated. He growled:

"I'm off upstairs to hide. Try to keep out of their way, but if they see
you, don't let them know I'm here! When that woman takes herself off,
come upstairs and find me."

Heavily he ascended the stairs. At the top he took off his hat and wiped
his forehead, above which the iron-grey hair still grew strong and
thick. "A damned close shave," he muttered. "I wouldn't have met that
woman and that flibbertigibbet brother of mine for worlds." He peered in
at the principal bedrooms, finding no remembrance there but only
distaste for the fly-blown mirrors and beds heaped with mounds of linen
and pillows. Drawers of writing-bureaux stood half-open, the yellowing
papers within revealed.

He felt half-stifled and longed for the moment of escape. He turned from
each with a sigh and wondered where he would be safest from Miss Trent.
He thought he would go into the room to which one descended by two
shallow steps, and, if he heard them coming, he would simply put his
back against the door and keep them out. He thumped down the two steps,
opened the door, entered and closed it softly behind him.

A sun-blind, yellow with age, hung askew half-way down the window,
dimming the light in the room to a sallow twilight. He was astonished to
find that he was not alone there. A woman was sitting by the bureau
looking over some papers she had taken from it.

He would have escaped, but she looked up and their eyes met. He stood
quite still, returning her gaze, with that peculiar feeling of having
done all this before, of enacting a scene which he had previously
rehearsed. Apart from that feeling his brain had ceased to function. He
looked at the woman, saw that she was well dressed, elderly,
distinguished-looking, but he was uncertain as to whether he and she
were really existing in the world he knew.

The sound of her voice dispersed this trance-like condition. She
said--"Why, Nicholas, how strange to meet you here!"

Her words came as the breaking of ice in a frozen stream, setting free a
flood of memories. He saw clearly now that she was Millicent, the woman
who had divorced him, and he realised that they were face to face, alone
in a room of her dead brother's house. He had the painful sense of
returning reality that comes after the oblivion of an anaesthetic. Her
voice sounded far away, yet it beat on his ears. Her face was the face
of a stranger, yet the eyes pierced the intimacies of his heart.

She had got up and come to him. "I'm afraid I gave you a start," she
said. "Hadn't you better sit down? You look pale."

She too looked pale, and her voice, for all the coolness of her words,
trembled with emotion.

"No, no," he said. "I'm quite all right. But you did give me a start. I
was feeling rather despondent, as it was, finding everything here so
changed. The rooms, where we'd been so happy, torn up." The muscles
about his mouth twitched and he looked at her almost pathetically.

"I know, I know. I was feeling badly too. I had no idea you were in
England."

"Ernest and I are over here on a visit to Augusta. We've got a young
nephew with us. He and another boy and one of the Court children are
downstairs."

She was rubbing her palms with a wisp of a perfumed handkerchief. Good
God, it was the same scent she had always used! How it brought things
back to him! She asked--"Is Ernest here?"

"_Ernest!_" he repeated wrathfully. "Don't speak to me of Ernest! He's
down in the kitchen with a woman who is in the antique business. I
believe they're buying up the pots and pans for her shop."

"I hope they are. I'll be very glad of the money."

"Did this place come to you?" he asked, his tone taking on the
matter-of-fact note of intimates.

She nodded. "I should have put the whole house in order and had a proper
sale. But I really hadn't the energy. I'm just letting this agent sell
things off as best he can."

"I've a rich young chap downstairs. Perhaps I could get him interested
in something."

"That would be good of you!" And she added, with the flicker of a
smile--"You were always so kind, Nick!"

His grey eyebrows went up. "It's never too late to hear good news," he
said.

"Oh, I never accused you of unkindness ... except in court!"

"Well, it's about the only thing you didn't accuse me of!"

She gave a little laugh. "When I look back on it all it seems to me that
we were very silly."

"Do you mean," he asked, "that you think we might have got on?"

"Yes, I do."

He eyed her suspiciously. She wasn't trying to make it up, was she? At
this time of life! He said gruffly:

"No, no, no. We never could have got on!"

"No, I suppose not," she sighed.

"May I open the window?" he asked. "It's very close here."

"Please do. I tried, but it was stuck. Isn't this room terrible? The
whole house depressing? Henry lived here alone for the last two years,
with only a woman coming in by the day to look after him. He drank
himself to death. He refused to see me."

He had let in the air and he took deep breaths of it. The door of a
cupboard standing open revealed a mound of decaying apples on the floor
and shelves crowded with empty spirit bottles. He sat down and gazed
mournfully at her. "A bad business," he said. "Apples and whiskey, eh?
Well, well."

"I should have had the place tidied up," she sighed again, "but I really
was not fit for the effort."

"Is your health pretty good, now?" He remembered that she had always
been complaining.

"Better than it used to be," she answered defiantly.

"You hold your age well. You're a good-looking woman."

"You're a handsome man still."

"No, no, I'm a wreck."

"Nonsense!"

"No nonsense about it."

"You're a distinguished-looking man, and always will be."

"Do you wish me well, Millicent?"

She put out her hand and just touched his. He noticed her white, rather
clawlike ringers, with the large, curving nails. They were just the
same. He had intensely disliked her hands.

He tugged at his moustache. His nerves felt shaken by this strumming on
them of a half-forgotten tune.

"I wish you very well," she said. "And I'm glad we met--this last time."
No doubt about it, there was a note of sentimentality in her voice.

"It's odd," she went on, "that you did not marry again."

"No desire."

"I suppose you know that my husband is dead."

"Yes, too bad!" He had liked the young Irish officer for whom she had
left him, and whom she had married after the divorce. Nicholas had
allowed her suit to go undefended. She had had good grounds.

Finch came hurrying up the stairs and into the room. Nicholas introduced
him. "My nephew, Millicent. Finch, Mrs. O'Flynn, an old friend of mine."

                  *       *       *       *       *

They had trouble in finding Arthur Leigh and Sarah. At last Finch
discovered them--she sitting on a stile that led into a field where there
was a flock of sheep; Arthur standing, with one of her hands in both of
his and an expression of joyous excitement on his sensitive face.




                                   XI


                        ARTHUR, SARAH, AND FINCH

As soon as there was an opportunity Leigh drew Finch into the privacy of
the little outbuilding where the lawn-roller and the tennis-net were
kept. The sun had gone and the dew was falling, but the heavens were
still transfused by a tender rose-coloured light. A chestnut-tree shaded
the outhouse, and the fallen petals of its bloom lay thick about the
door, trampled by those who entered.

Arthur sat down on the lawn-roller and looked up at Finch with a
half-pleading expression. He said:

"Now all the misery and uncertainty of it is over and only the beautiful
part is left, you'll forgive me, won't you?"

"Forgive you what?" Finch asked in a hurried, nervous voice. He hoped
that Arthur was not going to tell him of his feelings, disclose the
spiritual distress that had been torturing him during all his visit.

"You know quite well. I've been a perfect beast ever since I came.
Honestly, I don't believe I can ever remember having been so morose and
so brutally selfish in all my life before. Especially to you, Finch, who
mean most of all to me!"

"More than Sarah?" asked Finch, trying to speak lightly.

Arthur answered seriously--"Yes, more than Sarah, in some ways. Because
you're my dear close friend and she's the woman I worship, and dearness
and closeness don't seem to go with that someway."

"I scarcely know anything," said Finch. "Won't you tell me? Of course,
when I saw her sitting on the stile and you beside her, with that look,
I knew there was something pretty serious. Arthur, is she going to marry
you?"

"She is! I can hardly believe it. I've been like a man lost in a forest,
giving up all hope of finding his way out. I've felt half-mad sometimes;
it was all so sudden, so unexpected." In spite of his reassurance, his
new-found joy, there was still a look of distress on his face. "How can
I make you understand? You've never been up against this kind of thing."

Finch looked at him compassionately and yet with a feeling of being
himself hurt. Arthur had rushed into the midst of their scene, gathered
into his own hands the strands of the tapestry Finch had slowly been
weaving, and, in a kind of panic of passion, was changing it into a
pattern all his own. Finch believed that it was the first time in
Arthur's life that he had ever been frightened by his own feelings, felt
the possibility of being thwarted in a desire. Arthur had always worn
the bright, silky look of youth that had never been crossed!

"I can imagine something of what you are feeling. I've seen how unhappy
you've been. But it couldn't last. Things were bound to come right. How
could any girl keep from loving you if you loved her?"

"Oh, but you don't know Sarah. A man might prostrate himself at Sarah's
feet and howl of his love till the stars were shaken, and it wouldn't
move her. Not unless she loved him too!"

"But she does love you. It must be splendid to realise that."

"I can't realise it! You know, I didn't intend to speak of love to her
to-day. All I intended was to ask her if we might meet sometimes. To
tell her that I simply couldn't bear to think that everything would end
with my going back to London.... She was sitting on the stile, with a
big holly bush behind her, looking divinely distant.... You know that
little secret look at the corner of her mouth. Well, it maddened me,
because I felt that, if she were thinking of me at all, it was only as a
far-away mortal whose hopes or despairs could never mean anything to
her.... I said what I had meant to say about our meeting. She said that
she very seldom came over to England. It had been three years since the
last visit. I said then that I'd go to Ireland to see her, if she'd let
me. She turned and looked at me with the most adorable smile, but she
didn't answer.... There was something in the smile that made me lose my
head. I poured out all my feelings. A regular flood, it must have seemed
to her.... At the end I said that if she would not marry me I'd not
answer for what I might do. She said, very gently, that she'd marry
me.... Oh, that voice of hers! Did you ever hear a voice like it,
Finch?"

"It's very sweet."

"Sweet! It's as though a star spoke! And the way she moves! Like a lily
on its stem.... And the way she won't look at you, and then turns and
looks into the very depths of you! She is like the angel that troubled
the waters and brought out all that was potent in them. It's that way
with me. Now I know she loves me, I feel as though I have a new power
for living."

"I'm frightfully glad for you, Arthur."

"I know you are! And to think it all came through you! I wonder how her
aunt will take it?"

"She likes you. I can see that."

"Well, like or not like, she can't stop us. We're going to be married
right away."

Mrs. Court raised no difficulties. In fact she seemed to be delighted
with the idea of having Leigh for a nephew. She told Augusta that she
believed she herself had brought about the match by her tact and
understanding of the young people. Augusta was offended because of her
plans for Finch and Sarah. She had an inward conviction that Mrs. Court
was making the best of a bad job. If she had to lose an unpaid
companion, she would get what credit she could out of the affair and
trust that Sarah, in her future affluence, would not forget her kind old
aunt. She took a motherly tone with Leigh, was anxious about his
paleness. She was having a course of codliver oil and begged him to join
her in it. Leigh, always nervous in regard to his health, was persuaded.
After each meal Ellen carried a small tray to her on which was a bottle
of the oil and a tablespoon. The rest of the party watched fascinated
while she measured out the nauseous dose; turned away as she opened wide
her thin-lipped mouth and gulped it; turned back again, with sickly
smiles, to see her lick the spoon.

"It's all in getting used to it," she declared. "Once you are used to
it, it grows on you."

The moment Leigh consented to try it she ordered two tablespoons to be
brought. She poured out his dose herself and trotted round to his side,
balancing it on the spoon. He opened his mouth. She thrust it in. His
expression of heroic suffering delighted Sarah. She threw one of her
malicious looks at Finch.

Inside of a few days Mrs. Court could perceive an improvement in him.
"Isn't he getting a pretty boy?" she cried. "I call him my poppet! My
pretty poppet."

It was arranged that Mrs. Court and Augusta should take Sarah to London
to buy clothes for the wedding. Arthur was to accompany them.

When Nicholas and Finch found themselves alone at Lyming for a space
they were pleased rather than otherwise. Nicholas had been finding it
increasingly difficult to get on with Augusta. He was tired of Mrs.
Court, her passion for whist and playing accompaniments, her habit of
taking cod-liver oil in public. He was tired of hearing her extol the
virtues of Thomas Court and condemn the habits of Denis, for he had
disliked one and liked the other. Besides, he wanted an opportunity of
seeing something of Eden and Minny. He resented the fact that, because
of Mrs. Court, he could not have Eden come to see him at the Hall.

Finch had been living under a strain since Arthur's arrival. Now he
could relax and let the days pass in indolent succession. He would get
up in time to see the sun rise, watching its face, red as a garnet, push
up out of the meadow mist till it swam above the church tower into the
clear sky. He would spend most of the day in its warmth, his neck
turning a deep brown, until the sunset faded in a glory of dying wings
behind the tors. In the heat of noon he lay on the short grass in the
shadow of the ivied wall, with a book or just dreaming. The form of
Sarah glided in and out of his dreams, both waking and sleeping,
sometimes seeming to flee from him, at others to beckon him. In the
evenings he fancied he could see her on the garden-seat in her
poppy-coloured shawl. When she had been in the house with him he had
forgotten her almost as soon as her physical presence was removed, but,
now that she was gone, he could not forget her for a moment. Arthur he
seldom thought about, except to wonder how much Sarah really loved him.
He conceived the idea that the intensity of Arthur's passion had evoked
a response in her, and he wondered whether, if he had burned with love
for her, she would have responded. But no girl could help loving Arthur,
if he set about making her love him. For himself, he fancied he would be
hard to love. He would be blundering even in that relation.

Once he followed Ralph Hart and his girl along a winding lane, across a
field, over a stile, and across another field. All the way they had held
hands. It was the bell-ringers' evening for practice, and during the
walk the ecstatic chime and clamour of the bells had not ceased. From
every hedgerow the sweetness of flowers had come, and from the dark
clump of woods the hoot of owls. Above all other scents, and
intermingled strangely with hoot of owl and chime of bells, rose the
smell of new-mown hay.

Finch had a feeling that this life would go on forever. Himself and
Uncle Nick alone in the house, himself and Ralph Hart talking in the
garden, himself walking alone at night under the moon. The sensation of
the shadowy form that left his breast, leaving him void of personality
but strangely strong, came to him more often. It was drawn like a bolt
from his body, the door of his being flew open, and he was one with the
moor and the wind on the moor. For the first time he attempted to
compose for the piano.

Nicholas suggested that they ask "the lodge-keeper and his lady", as he
called Eden and Minny, to spend the Sunday evening with them. The maids,
excepting Ellen, would be out, and Ellen knew how to hold her tongue.
"Even if Augusta finds out that they've been here, I don't believe
she'll mind much. Though she does wear a Queen Alexandra fringe, she
dates from before Victorian days." And, looking hard at Finch from under
his shaggy brows, he added--"I want to see Eden. I want to see Minny. I
like the young folk about me." Finch thought--"Good Lord, he's at it
again! It's a good thing Uncle Ernie isn't here. It upsets him so to
hear Uncle Nick being like Gran." He agreed that it would be jolly to
have a little party.

The two from the lodge arrived looking tidier than Finch had yet seen
them. Minny, poor girl, had got a new frock of summer silk, purchased
through the advertisement of a London shop's July sale. Eden had himself
trimmed her thick hair. And, surely enough, there were the dabs of rouge
on her ears!

"I've turned barber," Eden exclaimed. "How do you like Minny's hair?"

"I like her ears," said Nicholas, and pinched one.

Minny caught his hand. "May I call you Uncle Nick?"

"My dear! What else should you call me?"

There was hilarity at supper. Eden swore that it was the first good meal
he had had in months. Minny cooked so badly, he said, that he had to do
most of it himself. But it was impossible to offend Minny. Like the
yielding fulfilment of hot July itself, she opened her mouth, and
laughter and breath as sweet as clover issued from it. Nicholas was
generous with Augusta's best wine.

After supper Nicholas and Eden talked, and Finch and Minny listened.
Then there was music, and the talkers listened.

On the way back to the lodge Minny said, holding tightly to Eden's
arm--"Oh darling, wouldn't it be thrilling if we owned a place like
that!"

"We never shall, my child," he answered. "You and your poet must sing on
other people's doorsteps."

When the others came back from town all was haste and preparation for an
early wedding. Leigh was nervously intolerant of delay. The pangs of his
love could not brook the loss of summer weeks with Sarah as his bride.
His mother and sister were in British Columbia. His mother had had an
illness, and it would be some time before she could make a long journey.
He would have liked to be married in a registry office, but neither
Augusta nor Mrs. Court would hear of any such thing. The wedding might
be simple, the guests few, but it must be properly done. Augusta thought
it augured well for their happiness that Renny and Alayne had been
married from her house the year before. Only people from the
neighbouring houses and a few friends of Leigh's from London would be
present.

Since Sarah's coldness had melted into love under Arthur's passion,
Finch wondered at his friend's feverish unrest. He looked tired after
the week in London. Suddenly one day he confided to Finch:

"I often feel as though she were slipping away from me. I've never been
quite so near her again as that first day by the stile. I feel
half-frightened.... And irritated.... Then I'm angry at myself. She's so
absolutely sweet and adorable. Yet she puzzles me. I think when I've had
her in the flesh it will be different. We've disagreed about the
honeymoon. I wanted to go to Norway; but no, she wants to go to the sea.
Some place quite near here. She hates society. She scarcely spoke to my
friends in London when I brought them to see her."

"Has she ever told you about her childhood?" asked Finch.

"Nothing except that she was orphaned at thirteen, and that Mrs. Court
adopted her then. Educated her, took her travelling. My feeling is that
Sarah has no spark of gratitude toward her for what she's done. I think
she's an old dear."

Finch hesitated as to whether or not he should tell Arthur of the manner
of Denis Court's death. A longing to keep something of Sarah secret to
himself prevented him. If she had wanted Arthur to know of her strange
childhood she would have told him. In any case, his conversations with
her in the garden were his own to forget or to meditate on as he chose.
He was glad that she had told Arthur nothing. He said:

"I agree with Sarah. I can't think of anything better than a honeymoon
on the seacoast here. Renny and Alayne had a cottage in Cornwall for a
month, and they were awfully keen about it. He's often spoken since of
the hours he spent with fishermen."

"Well, that's a funny thing to remember out of one's honeymoon!"

"Oh, I suppose there were other things. But he's that sort of chap; and
then she was always going about to the old churches making rubbings of
the brasses. She's got quite a lot of them at Jalna now. But that sort
of thing would bore Renny horribly."

"I wonder if we could get their cottage."

"It's rather late for that. They had it in June, before the rush."

"I like the idea of a cottage. I must speak to Sarah about it."

Finch thought that Arthur, in marrying Sarah, was bound to an enterprise
that would leave him less time for self-analysis than formerly.

They hired a motor--for the keeping of one was an extravagance Augusta
did not allow herself--and went into Cornwall. They sought out agents and
had one disappointment after another. All desirable places had been let
months ago. It was within a few days of the wedding, and Leigh was in
despair, when an agent in Polmouth told him of a house belonging to a
well-off retired Cornish farmer. It was a fine house, he said, vastly
superior to the places that were usually to let. The two youths rattled
off in their hired car to inspect it.

It stood on the outskirts of the town in its own garden--a square, ugly
house, with white sun-blinds and curtains gleaming frostily behind each
polished pane. Not a fallen leaf lay in the spruce garden, not an atom
of dust within. They were shown into the dining-room, where, seated on
the mahogany chairs upholstered in crimson plush, they were critically
interviewed by the lean husband. With a hard, quizzical gleam in his
small eyes, he sat entrenched behind the dining-table, tapping on it
with his spectacles while the rent was discussed. The plump wife, a
yearning beam in her large eyes, sat silent, with submissively folded
hands. Finch soon discovered that her chance of visiting her married
daughter in Scotland depended on the letting of the house. Something in
the Cornishman roused a feeling of antagonism in Leigh. Finch was
astonished to hear him haggle over the rent. There were periods of
terrible silence while they sat at grips, the old man tapping with his
spectacles, Leigh looking stony. By the time all was settled and the
rent had been reduced by twenty-two and six a week, Finch and the wife
were in a state of abject depression.

Leigh and the Cornishman were suddenly beaming, pleased with each other.
Finch thought--"I begin to see why Arthur's people all made money." Yet,
Arthur was so extravagant. Finch and the wife smiled at each other and
drew sighs of relief. A final survey of house and garden was made. Leigh
was told that the apples on the wall were not included with possession
unless blown down by a gale. But the runner beans were. The Cornishman
was almost jubilant in the throwing in of the beans. He ran into the
house and fetched a kitchen knife that he might demonstrate the most
effective way of preparing them for the pot. Leigh, who had probably
never seen an uncooked bean before, looked on attentively while one was
meticulously sliced. The wife showed them just how reverently the
electric suction cleaner must be manipulated, and promised to engage a
capable cook and housemaid for them.

In the car Leigh threw himself back with a gesture of dismay.

"To think," he ejaculated, "that I should be taking my lovely Sarah to
such a mausoleum! It seems too bad to be true! Did you see the dreadful
whiteness of the bedrooms? Why did you let me do it?"

"I don't think it will be so bad," comforted Finch. "After all, the
house is only a shelter. Look at that, and you'll see how little the
house matters." He pointed to the sea stretching to the blue horizon in
an incalculable multitude of advancing foam-fringed waves. "You should
worry," he grinned, "about lace curtains and texts on the walls!"

Arthur looked out, his face brightened. "Isn't it glorious! Oh, if only
you were going to be with us to enjoy it, too." His eager eyes turned to
Finch with a compelling look. "There is no reason on earth why you
shouldn't." He smote Finch on the leg. "You must! You must! Think of
those fine white bedrooms! Don't refuse me this, Finch! You've no idea
how much I want you."

"Well," said Finch, "it's the rummiest suggestion I ever heard. To want
to take your best man on your honeymoon. Why, Sarah'd never stand for
it. It would be awfully upsetting for her. A honeymoon is about enough
for a girl to take on, let alone a groomsman thrown in!"

"Rot! Sarah would love to have you. She likes you tremendously, she's
told me so. And it's not only that we'd like to have you ... there's
something more ... I can't quite explain.... Finch, darling, I want your
support.... You may think that my love for Sarah has come between you
and me. You're wrong. I think more of you than ever. And I want to have
you near me in these weeks. I want the woman I love and the man I love
beside me. I want the two different loves merged into one beautiful
whole. I want our love to be as clear as the brightness of a
three-pointed star. Do you understand?" He held one of Finch's hands
tightly in his.

"But--hadn't we better begin it a little later?" asked Finch. His very
flesh and bones seemed to melt into some ethereal substance at Arthur's
words, Arthur's touch, but he was assailed by doubt at the thought of
sharing the honeymoon.

"No, we can't!" Arthur returned fiercely. "It's begun already. Now is
the time to hold it to us. Cherish it. Make it part of us, don't you
see?"

Finch felt rather bewildered, but he agreed. "You won't want me right at
the first, will you?"

"Of course we shall!" Arthur pulled his hat petulantly over his eyes. He
relapsed into a brooding silence.

The day of the wedding was a day of soft rain. Everything felt warm and
damp to the touch. The pensive air held the sound of the wedding chimes
as though reluctant to let it go. The chimes beat, quivered, pulsed
through the patter of the rain, and died at last in the mist of the
moor. Arthur was delighted at the thought of giving money to
bell-ringers at his wedding.

Mrs. Court annoyed Augusta excessively by beating a tattoo with her
heels throughout the service. Augusta shed a dignified tear or two,
since there was no one else to do it. She had also done this for Renny
and Alayne.

That part of the church not occupied by guests was filled by curious
villagers and country people. They agreed that the groom was a pretty
young man and that the bride was proud and cold. They thought that the
best man was a kind-looking young man, but sad. An aged Court, almost
stone deaf and with an appetite even greater than Finch's, came over
from Ireland to give Sarah away. He evidently mistook her for some other
great-niece, for he continually addressed her as Bridget.

At the first Augusta and Mrs. Court had thought the idea of taking a
third person on the honeymoon a far too unconventional one. Arthur
persuaded them, however, that, on the contrary, it was one of really
arch-propriety. Sarah was acquiescent. The thought of a house near the
coast pleased her, for her aunt's house was inland and she longed for
the sea.

By the time they and their belongings were stowed in the hired car and
had gained the macadam highroad to Polmouth, the rain that had been
lightly falling from a sky of pale, shifting cloud-forms, began to beat
fiercely on the pavement, rebounding from it in large silvery drops. The
drenched hedgerows seemed to draw nearer the road, abundantly green and
starred by a multitude of flowers.

Finch sat with the driver nursing Sarah's violin. The case was clammy in
his hands, and he thought of the violin inside as a sensate thing,
troubled by the tide of life that flowed about it. He clutched it,
staring at the streaming glass of the windows.

Mrs. Court had explained--"Sarah cannot play without me! No use in taking
her fiddle that I can see."

Arthur had answered silkily--"Sarah must learn to play with Finch, for my
sake."

Sarah had agreed to take it, but she doubted if she would play it when
she had the sea to play with.

When they reached Polmouth, the rain was a deluge. When they stopped
before the gate of Penholme, they saw the house behind a leaning wall of
rain. The dash from motor to porch was a scurry under a wave. The maids
ran here and there with the luggage. Leigh was glad that he had told no
one in the place that he was newly married.

As they sat about the square expanse of the mahogany table, eating their
tea, his eyes roved distractedly about the room.

"I can't bear it," he kept repeating. "I simply can't bear it."

"Don't glare about so," advised Finch. "Keep your eyes on Sarah."

"But what a blasphemous setting for her! I can't and won't bear it."

"What shall you do?"

"Turn half the things out of this room. You'll see. Just wait until I've
finished this preposterous saffron cake!"

Sarah, appealed to, thought the room was very nice.

When tea was over and they had got the servants out of way, Arthur
linked arms with the other two and made the rounds of parlour,
dining-room, and little morning-room. Each, he declared, was more
contrary to art and nature than the other. The walls of all the rooms,
including the hall, were hung with gilt-framed oil-paintings by an
artist named Stephen Gandy. They were all of Cornish scenes. Cornish
cows stood footless in tangled meadows. Cornish waves poppled against
turgid Cornish cliffs. Enormous, stiff-tailed setters gazed upwards at a
falling bird. Sheep were lost in snowdrifts. Ships were wrecked. All,
all Cornish.

"Oh, Stephen Gandy!" cried Arthur. "If only I had you by the throat!
To-morrow's sun would rise on one Cornishman the less!"

Sarah said she liked the pictures.

"My adored one," he explained, taking her hand, "if you like them it is
because you see them in a golden mist of love for me! Don't you think
that is so?" He looked at her in a way Finch thought was strange. His
eyes had an excited glitter in them, his mouth looked strained, as
though his smile were forced. He looked afraid.

Finch thought--"This is terrible. Why am I here?"

Arthur said--"I will bear with the pictures, but I will not endure the
mats and the tidies!"

Scattered over the floors and in the doorways they counted thirteen
mats, and, on the chair backs, nine tidies. Finch and Arthur carried
them by armfuls to an upstairs room. To it also they carried innumerable
glass and china ornaments of tortured shape. The furniture must be all
changed about. Arthur discovered an old table and some chairs that
pleased him, and brought them out of their retirement into the light. He
swathed the glaring electric globes in coloured scarves of Sarah's
trousseau. He was in despair over three grim aspidistras in ornamental
pots until Finch offered to keep them in his bedroom.

"You're sure you don't mind having them? They won't keep you awake?"

"Oh, hell," said Finch. "What do you take me for?"

"If I slept in the room with them, do you know what would happen? In the
morning they would be more overgrown, more disgustingly green, more
macabre. But I should be dead!"

"I know," returned Finch solemnly. "But you're so frightfully sensitive,
Arthur, and I'm not."

"Listen to that rain! Do you think it's a bad omen?"

"Of course not."

"Do you think Sarah cares very deeply for me?"

"I'm sure of it."

"Finch, will you play to us to-night?"

"As long as you like...."

The three sat smoking about the red and green tiles of the grate. There
was a blazing fire. The little German inlaid clock chimed the hour.

"I shall now make my Cornishman's prayer," declared Arthur. "'From
ghosties, and ghoulies, and long-tailed gandies, Good Lord deliver us!'"




                                  XII


                               BY THE SEA

They were taking their first picnic to the shore. After three days of
wind and rain the sun shone warmly and a period of tranquil summer
weather was foretold. The wings of the gulls shone between sea and sky
of equal blueness. All the life of Polmouth that had retreated, damp and
discouraged, to the shelter of its slated roofs now leaped out
rejoicing. On the links the figures of golfers were dotted with upraised
bare forearms. On the downs the black-faced sheep exposed the dampness
of their wool to the sun. On the porches of the boarding-houses appeared
rows of drying bathing-suits. Soon after sunrise the hardiest strode to
the sands, towels hung about their shoulders. All day long the bathing
continued. In the heat of the day the throng of bright-coloured figures
glowed like tropic flowers in the surf. Strong-limbed boys and girls
hurled themselves on painted surf-boards and were carried,
half-smothered in foam, to the gleaming sands. They were careless of the
changeful currents and gave little heed to the coast-guardsman who
shouted warnings to them through a megaphone. As he wiped his mouth
after each brazen warning he would growl to himself, in his natural
voice--"Let 'un drown then! And serve 'un right! What do they think I am?
A nursery-maid? Next time I'll let 'un drown and no mistake." Little
bronze, half-naked children scuttled here and there carrying tin pails
and spades. Elderly ladies clutching reticules walked gingerly in the
advancing foam, their upheld skirts showing plump white legs, while they
kept a wary eye on their black stockings and shoes perched on some
shell-encrusted rock. In gravelly recesses between the jutting cliffs
little groups lay basking in the sun or reading novels with its light
full on the page.

Along the edge of the cliffs, high above these scenes, Finch and Arthur
were carrying baskets for the first picnic on the shore. Behind them, so
that it was necessary for them to wait every little while in order that
she might overtake them, came Sarah. She glided empty handed on the
smooth turf, frequently pausing, on the very edge of the cliff, to look
below.

"Do be careful, Sarah!" Leigh would cry, in sudden fright. "Don't you
see how dangerous it is? One slip, and you'd be flying down that
precipice!"

For a time she would be careful, but soon again she would be hovering
like a sea-bird on the edge of the cliff. She seldom spoke, but once she
pointed across the sea and said--"Over there is Ireland."

The youths felt so full of life that they would have liked to run up and
down the sweeping roll of the downs. But there was Sarah to be waited
for, watched over. In all his aching curiosity about her, Finch
discovered no slightest change in her attitude either toward himself or
Arthur since her marriage. She spoke in the same sweet, almost inaudible
tone. She listened to their conversations and laughter in silence.
Occasionally, Finch fancied, she threw him a look of evasion. At times
Arthur showed an almost agonised desire to understand her. At other
times, he appeared to strive to ignore her and to delight in the
presence of Finch. His attitude towards her was at once protecting and
tormented because of his inability to draw near to her.

Her most urgent need seemed to be, as before her marriage, the need for
solitude. Finch could not help recalling Mrs. Court's nicknames of Mouse
and Mole. But, as the month drew on, she had moments of wild gaiety.
This was evinced, not by laughter or movement, but by change of
expression. Her look of detachment would vanish, and her aspect become
one of untamed joy in wind and sea.

Although so often they must wait for her as she glided over the smooth
undulations of the downs, it was she who urged that they go on and on,
always seeming to see in the cliff just beyond, the perfect view, the
perfect place for rest. At last, on the tallest cliff, on the one that
pressed farthest out to sea, she stopped and, taking the red shawl from
Arthur, spread it for herself on the grass. He and Finch set down their
baskets and stretched themselves at full length. No bathers were visible
here, only, far below, a man was leading a plunging team across a stony
ridge cast up by the sea to where he would fill his waggon with stones
for building. The stamp of hooves, the rattle of rolling stones, rose
sharply above the languorous wash of the midsummer sea.

Finch lay still, listening. He felt the magnetic draw of the dark cliff
beneath him. He felt the vibration of the sea through the interminable
congregation of rock and earth and subterranean spring that formed it.
He watched the sea-gulls like wind-tossed lilies drift above him. He
felt conscious of the beating of the hearts of his companions. Like the
beat of an advancing tide he felt their nearness. He remembered what
Arthur had said about their love being clear and bright ... a
three-pointed star.... He wished that he could put the thought of Sarah
from him.

After a while Arthur began to unpack the basket. He was eager to see
what the cook had given them. He set out the plate of sandwiches, the
tomatoes, the cakes, the box of raspberries, the bowl of Cornish cream.
Finch had carried some bottles of Somerset ale.

"I'll be hanged," ejaculated Leigh, "if we haven't forgotten the opener.
How are we going to open the ale?"

"I'll knock the heads off the bottles," answered Finch blithely.

He crept to the edge of the cliff, carrying a bottle, and peered over
the side. The dark plane of shale and slate swept down into the black
shadow of a cave guarded by jagged pinnacles of rock. What would it be
like, he wondered, to drop over the edge of the cliff, end all, discover
all, in one brief moment. He saw himself sinking, not plunging,
downward, into the translucent greenness of forward-sliding waves. Ah,
but it should be done at high tide, not to fall on those black
pinnacles!

Arthur's voice recalled him. "What's the matter, Finch? Can't you find a
rock to hit it on?"

Finch struck the neck of the bottle on a sharp projection. A swirl of
small birds rose from the face of the cliff. Foam spurted over his hand
and spattered his face. He returned to the others, grinning. Flakes of
foam made his grin ridiculous. Arthur shouted with laughter but Sarah
said coldly:

"You have cut your wrist." She took her handkerchief and pressed it on
the cut.

"Oh, I'm sorry, old man!" exclaimed Leigh. He filled three glasses with
the ale.

"It's nothing," muttered Finch. He sat very still, as Sarah bound the
handkerchief about his wrist, his nerves strangely aquiver.

"It's too small," she said. "Look, the blood is coming through!"

"Don't ask me to look," said Leigh hastily. "The sight of blood makes me
sick."

"It doesn't me," said his wife. "I like it."

Leigh gave her a horrified look. "Sarah! You don't know what you are
saying, darling."

"Yes, I do! It stirs something in me."

"What sort of something?"

"Old and fierce and wicked."

Leigh gave a forced laugh. "Take your hand away from her, Finch. She's
dangerous!"

She put the hand away from her. "Finch understands."'

"Do you, Finch?"

"I think I do."

"Explain then. She frightens me."

"I can't explain."

"Why?"

"It's just a feeling."

"Well, I'll explain for you. You're both Courts, and you have the same
bloodthirsty old ancestors behind you."

Down below the man had loaded his waggon with stones. The horses were
struggling across the stony ridge with it. They plunged, with scraping,
clattering hooves and straining flanks. Patches of sweat appeared on
their heaving sides. The man, cracking his whip, stumbled beside them.
One of them stumbled, fell, was up again. In a last savage and
despairing effort they dragged the load over the ridge, across the
shingle, and halted on the grassy sward. For a few moments they relaxed,
the horses with drooping heads, the man nursing a strained elbow.

The three on the sunny cliff-side reclined watching the scene below in
silence. Delicate spirals of smoke curled above their heads. The white
clothes of the young men and the red of the shawl on which Sarah sat
were very distinct to the driver of the team when he raised his eyes in
their direction. The tide advanced murmurously in a long rippling line,
its advance scarcely perceptible until it gained some new outpost of the
shore.

"What a pity," said Leigh, "that we have no bathing suits! We must buy
some in the town."

After that they went bathing almost every day, the limbs of Arthur and
Finch turning a ruddy brown, and Sarah's coffee colour. She bought a
black bathing-cap that fitted closely about her face, so that it looked
like a strange pale flower appearing from its dark sheath. They had
almost to carry her down the steep steps cut in the rock. She relaxed in
their arms like a young child, seeming to give no thought to the
difficulty of the descent. The cave was assigned to her for a chamber
while they undressed in a sand-strewn crevice of the cliff. Then she
must be guided among the small sharp rocks jutting from the sand. Finch
cast a shy look at her legs, wondering that she was not able to make
better use of them. They were thin but shapely. When she was safely on
the sands, that gleamed like wet brown satin, she glided at her
accustomed pace to the surf. The sea looked far away, glancing in the
sunlight, tossing up its foam, singing to itself. The footprints of the
three slowly filled with water. Then suddenly they were in the sea. They
took hands and danced up and down. They splashed and were half blinded
in the translucent singing world of the waves. Sarah fell and they
caught her up, holding her in their wet arms, expecting her to scream,
to be joyously frightened, but she lay in their arms as she had lain
when they carried her down the steps in the cliff. They left her and
dashed forward breasting the waves. When she was left she lay down on
the rim of the foam, letting it wash over her.

On calm days they tried to teach her to swim. Obediently she made the
strokes, as they commanded, but the moment they relinquished their hold
of her she sank.

"There is no use in trying, my angel!" cried Leigh. "You'll never be a
swimmer!"

"If I could find a proper place," she replied, "I think I could."

One day, when they had swam out farther than usual, they returned to
find the shore empty.

"God in Heaven!" chattered Leigh, turning ghastly. "She is drowned!"

Beside themselves with fright they ran up and down the shore looking for
her, shouting her name. "Sarah! Sarah! Oh, my darling!"

Between their shouts they heard a faint answer. They flew shoreward from
where the sound came. They found her in a large tranquil pool, made
tepid by the sun, swimming round and round.

"I knew I could do it," she said, "if only you would let me be."

Mole! Mouse! Ignoble Fish! Crafty Crab! They hurled these names at her.

They lay on hot slabs of rock to dry themselves.

"But I cannot lie down with nothing under me," objected Sarah.

"Darling," cried Arthur, "that rock is as hot as blazes! You couldn't
possibly take cold."

"I'd like my shawl, please," returned his wife.

"I'll get it," said Finch. He made the ascent to the top of the cliff
and found the shawl. He stood motionless, for a moment, holding the
shawl in his arms then he buried his face against it, kissing it.

"That was nice of you," said Sarah, when he had spread it on a rock for
her. And he knew, by the fleeting malice of her smile, that she had seen
him on the cliff-top.

When it was too cold to bathe they built a fire of driftwood in a
sheltered coign of the cliff and boiled a kettle for tea. It was at
these times only that Sarah attempted to give any assistance. She would
stand sheltering the fire from the wind with her shawl until it began to
crackle and the flames lick about the kettle. They would sit smoking,
while Leigh talked happily, watching the sun sink into the sea,
cloud-flakes, like a flock of butterflies, drifting above it.

As the sultry days passed their gaiety was tempered by pensiveness which
grew into a faint melancholy, making them sit silent in each other's
company, feeling troubled, they knew not why.

Toward the end of the month they were caught in a sudden squall. It was
a Sunday, and there were many people abroad. In order to escape these
they walked to a point more distant than any they had reached before.
They sat on the brow of a cliff enjoying the new view of headland beyond
rocky headland stretching northward. Vast cloud formations were reared
like cities gilded and glorified by the sun's splendour, then were
disintegrated, dissolved before their eyes, leaving the sky a tranquil
arch of unbroken blue.

The sun went down, a flaming red sphere whose colour was reflected in a
thousand varying tints by clouds and wisps of vapour, by long,
slow-moving waves, by swift ripples that crisped along the sand, by the
ripples set in the sand itself, by pools left by the tide, by streamers
and thick clumps of sea-weed, by the jagged surface of the cliffs, by
the rounded smoothness of pebbles, by the delicate hollows of shells, by
the wings of birds, by the fleeces of sheep, by the faces of the girl
and boys on the cliff. From the moment when the sun's lower rim had
touched the horizon he had transformed the world into an embroidered
tapestry for his couch.

The squall, the driving rain, were on them before they had time to do
more than collect their belongings and run to the shelter of a hedge.
They huddled together while wind and rain beat on them. Nearby a flock
of sheep took shelter.

When the worst was over they set out on the walk back, wet but rather
exhilarated by the experience. The twilight was silvered by rain. Dense
clumps of furze loomed black as pools before them. They ran down the
long slopes of the downs with Sarah between them. She ran, as she
walked, with a peculiar gliding motion that left her upper part
immobile. Finch had the fancy that she was on wheels and that he and
Arthur were drawing her. His nerves were intensely alive.

As they were passing through a gap in a high hedge, they made out the
figures of two people who had found shelter there. They did not seem to
be in a hurry to leave the shelter. The woman lay with her head toward
the hedge, and the man, raised on his elbow, beside her. They were
oblivious of the three who were passing. Finch saw the bulk of the man's
shoulders and the movement of his arm as he caressed the woman. They
were shadows thrown against a wall of rain. The woman half sat up. The
man's head, bent above her, was as motionless as the head of a gargoyle
on a church tower. She sank back.

"Heavens, what a night!" exclaimed Leigh, when they had passed through
the gap. "What a night, and what a place for love!"

"I can think of worse nights--and worse places," said Sarah.

"I wish we were back at Penholme. It's a long way yet."

"Have you my shawl safe, Arthur?"

"I have it, and it's as safe as anything is."

He spoke crisply, feeling suddenly irritated by her, irritated by Finch,
by the rain that was trickling down his neck.

Finch thought of the two by the hedge. They must be soaked through, but
they would be unaware of the discomfort. They were lying there wounded,
shot through by the fire of love. The man's head had been still as the
upraised head of a snake about to sting. The woman had been supine as a
snake basking in the sun. They were natural, that's what they were.
People weren't intended to go into houses, to hide themselves away from
the rain and the blown spray of the sea. He gloried in it wetting his
cheeks, plastering his hair on his forehead. For the first time in his
life he gloried in his maleness, feeling it strong and untamed and
bitter within him. He gloried in the feel of Sarah's fingers caught in
his, clinging to him for support and guidance, in the jolt of their
bodies together as they passed over a rough bit of ground. He felt a
creeping antipathy for Arthur. It crept through him like a slow fire
through grass, sending a choking feeling like smoke through his being.
He would like to order Arthur to go on alone, to leave Sarah and himself
together. They would crouch somewhere together, watching the
storm-clouds disperse and the young moon show through. They would search
for the reflection of its crescent in each other's eyes.... He would
kiss the raindrops from her face. He would know what it was like to be
kissed by her.... Heavy hatred for Arthur surged through him. He was
afraid of himself. Afraid of what the storm and the sight of those two
in the hedge had done to his mind.... He remembered Arthur's saying--"You
are both Courts. You have the same ancestors behind you." That must be
the explanation of something wild in them both.... If only he might talk
to Sarah alone!

He was not watching where he was going. He stepped into the opening of a
burrow, hidden in grass, and fell headlong, almost dragging the others
with him. When he gathered himself up he found that his ankle was
strained. He could walk no farther. He sat down on a low crumbling wall
and nursed his ankle. The rain was ceasing and the faces of Sarah and
Arthur were pale discs in the glimmering moonlight.

"You must stay here while I go and fetch a car," Arthur said in a flat
voice. He felt no sympathy for Finch's suffering, only irritation. The
three had been isolated too long in each other's company.

"Sarah will wait with you." He was glad to leave Sarah behind, to put
down the heavy basket on the wall beside her. He set off gloomily toward
the blurred lights of the town below.

They listened to the soft suck of his retreating steps. Sarah took her
shawl from the basket and wrapped it round her. Finch forgot the ache in
his ankle. Her nearness, the consciousness that they were shut in by the
walls of the night, was a pain that obliterated all others.

She said: "This is like it used to be--in the garden."

"It's not at all like it was there."

"Why isn't it?"

"Because now I'm mad about you."

"And you weren't then?"

"I don't know. Perhaps I was. But I didn't realise it. Now it's too
late."

"I've loved you all along. From the first day you played my
accompaniments."

"Sarah!" His voice broke. He tried to see her face. "You loved me, and
married Arthur!"

"You did not ask me."

"You didn't give me time."

"You never made a sign. You say yourself that this is different--that you
don't know what your feelings were then."

"But you! You knew yours!"

"What could I do?"

"Couldn't you have made a sign? Don't women let men know? Never
once--never once did you give me any intimation that you cared for me!"

"I met you almost every night in the garden. You knew I was deceiving my
aunt."

"But a word--a look! You were as cold as ice! I don't believe you love
me! You just want to torture me." He buried his face in his hands.

"I love you more than you love me."

He gave a bitter laugh. "What do you know of love? Marrying one
man--loving another!"

"What do you know? It's new to you. It's partly the night. The storm.
Those lovers we saw. You're excited."

"You're as cold as ice. As cruel. And what a shame for Arthur--if what
you say is true!"

"He need not know."

"He will know. He's too sensitive not to find you out. Even now--he's not
happy."

"Did he tell you so?"

"No, but I feel it."

"He will be happy again when we are away from you."

"Yet it was Arthur who insisted on my coming! And you let me come ...
loving me!"

"You said just now that you do not believe I love you."

"I was wrong! You do love me, Sarah! Oh, my darling, beautiful Sarah!
Tell me you love me!"

She put her arms about him. In the darkness they kissed. A mighty
primaeval urge rose to them from the earth. The triumphant beating of
their hearts almost stifled them. A great wave thundered on the beach
and filled the night with its murmuring.

Finch tore himself from Sarah's arms. "We must not," he gasped. "Arthur
... my best friend ... never again.... We must forget all this--never let
him guess--that I--that you----"

Sarah folded her arms under her shawl. She gave her small, mysterious
smile.




                                  XIII


                               RALPH HART

Mrs. Court surveyed them critically. "Arthur is the only one," she said,
"who looks the better for the stay by the sea. But probably it was that
dosing of cod-liver oil I gave him that put flesh on him. Finch's cheeks
look more hollow than ever. As for Mouse, she looks exactly the same.
Let her bask in the sun or live in a hole, she's always the same--Mouse
and Mole!"

The young people stood looking down at her, the youths rather shamefaced
before her scrutiny, her niece as aloof as ever.

"Did you play your fiddle much, Mouse?"

"I did not play it once."

"Not once! I told you how it would be!" She turned triumphantly to her
contemporaries. "She cannot play unless I accompany her. I inspire her.
Isn't that so, Mouse?"

Sarah nodded, curling her lip in her malicious child's smile.

"And Finch depresses you--isn't that so?"

"Yes, Aunt."

Mrs. Court was delighted. She sat down in order that she might beat a
tattoo with her heels.

"It was the house, not Finch, that depressed Sarah," said Arthur. "If
you had seen the house, you would not have wondered that she could not
play in it. But it didn't affect Finch. His music is its own roof and
walls. He used to play to us in the evenings while we sat by the fire."
He told them then how they had changed the aspect of the house in the
first hour of arrival and of how they had forgotten the original
position of things when they set about restoring it at the last.

"You can picture Finch and me," he laughed, "running distractedly about
with antimacassars in our hands trying them first one place, then
another, discovering that they looked natural no place. There was a
door-mat with "Watch and Pray" on it and we tried it in seventeen
doorways before we found the right one."

"And which was the right one?" demanded Augusta.

"Ah, Lady Buckley, don't ask me. Let me tell you about the aspidistras!
There was a large one in a glazed pot in each of the principal rooms.
Finch agreed to take them all into his bedroom. I don't know what he did
to them but they grew so that, when we carried them out they would
scarcely pass through the door. His room looked like a jungle."

"In my house," observed Mrs. Court, "I have three aspidistras, nine
begonias, and fifteen cactuses."

"Cacti!" boomed Augusta.

"I call 'em cactuses. Funguses, cactuses. I never did like la-di-da
pronunciations."

"What is the plural," asked Ernest, "of candelabrum? I mean the
sensible, unaffected plural."

"Brums," answered Mrs. Court, curtly, but she eyed him with suspicion.

Soon she carried off Sarah and Arthur to another room where she could
question them without interruption.

"Well," said Nicholas, when the door had closed behind them, "I can't
imagine what young Leigh saw in that girl."

"She is certainly a very strange girl," agreed Ernest. "She says almost
nothing, yet one feels she thinks too much. She seems to be amiable, but
one wonders what is behind it all. One feels baffled."

"Perhaps that is what attracted Arthur Leigh," said Augusta. "Many men
admire deep women. My husband invariably admired a deep woman."

Her two brothers stared at her incredulously.

"Well," said Nicholas, "he wasn't very deep himself."

"Not deep?" cried Augusta. "Why, he was as deep as the sea!"

"How do you mean, deep as the sea? Do you mean deep intellectually or
just devious?"

Augusta answered firmly--"I mean both."

"I always thought," put in Ernest, "that Buckley was one of the most
transparent fellows I ever knew."

"So he was," agreed Augusta. "Transparent where he should be
transparent. Deep where he should be deep."

"And devious where he should be devious, I suppose," continued Nicholas.

"He could see as far through a stone wall as anyone," said Augusta, with
a hint of chill in her voice. Her tone implied that he had seen through
both Nicholas and Ernest.

Finch asked--"Have you heard from home while I have been away?"

"Yes," answered Nicholas, "and not good news. Meggie has not been well.
It will be necessary for her to have an operation, the doctor says."

Finch was aghast. "An operation! But wh--what's the matter? I hadn't
heard of anything wrong with Meggie."

"Well, I don't think it's anything very serious. Something that has been
troubling her since Patience was born. But it will be worrying for
them."

"Yes, indeed," said Ernest. "Poor Meggie!"

Poor Meggie? Finch's heart contracted with fear for her. And there his
uncles and aunt had sat discussing this and that as calmly as though all
were well at home! How callous, how self-absorbed they were! And they
had no secret trouble such as he had. He had had no peace of mind since
the scene on the downs. He had suffered shame, wild desire which there
was no hope of assuaging, and an unreasoning, bitter anger against both
Sarah and Arthur. He had not gone with them on any of their excursions
that last week. His strained ankle was excuse enough. He had kept to
himself, longing for the day of departure but not having the initiative
to return to Lyming without them. He had sat by the hour brooding on
what had passed between himself and Sarah, trying to recall their very
words in the conversations in the garden. In tacit understanding they
had avoided each other, but one look into that face, mysterious as a
closed flower, was enough to set his nerves on fire. Feverishly he would
recall the moment when the flower had opened to him. And not only opened
but pressed backward its petals, as though to absorb the extreme measure
of his passion.

And now there was this worry over Meggie! No love could make him
unheedful of Meggie, so tender, so unselfish, so kind. Did Eden, he
wondered, know of it? He did not ask the others whether they had told
him, but set out at once toward the lodge, moving slowly with the aid of
a stick.

As he limped down the drive he noticed how things were beginning to take
on the appearance of late summer. The berries of the thorns were
becoming a light red. Hips shone like coral in the wild rose bushes
along the fence. The swarthy harvest fields drew the last glance of the
sun. He noticed its light on the smooth grey trunks of the double row of
beeches, and how each beech had its own delicate embroidery of ivy on
the side exposed to the sun. The climbing roses that half hid the lodge
had attained their full growth of the season.

He stood listening at the door. There was no sound inside, and, after a
moment's hesitation, he entered without knocking. He would like to see
Eden alone. In some mysterious way he felt that he was nearer Eden than
he had been when he last saw him. Yet nothing would have induced him to
tell his brother of his experience.

He found him alone, stretched at full length on the floor, writing
hastily on a pad by the light of the fire. He had been disturbed by the
sound of Finch's stick and threw him a furious look over his shoulder.

"Oh, I'm sorry," stammered Finch, backing, "I'd no idea you'd be
writing."

"Why in hell shouldn't I be writing?" snarled Eden, his gaze returning
to the suspended point of his pencil.

"Why, of course, I'm glad you are! I'll take myself off. I do hope I
haven't made a mess of your poem."

"You blasted young swine, you've ruined it! Minny's in the garden. Go
and find her. I wish you'd do each other in and that would be an end of
you both."

Finch limped, as hastily as he could, through the back door into the
garden. He found Minny swaying indolently in a hammock hung between two
apple trees. The lichen-covered trees were so old and bent that they
tottered under the weight of Minny's fresh, exuberant form. She looked
up at Finch smiling, mirth in her oddly coloured slanting eyes. "Did he
drive you out, too?" she whispered. "I think he must be doing something
awfully good because he's been like this all day--scarcely able to bear
the sight of me. But he's quite capable of tearing it up to-morrow."

"I'm sorry I came at such a bad time, but I just wanted to see how you
were getting on."

"Oh, we're getting on well enough. But we missed you." A mocking light
came into her eyes. "Did you enjoy yourselves? Was it a nice honeymoon?"

Finch answered seriously.

"Yes, I enjoyed it very much. The sea bathing was glorious."

"You didn't find yourself _de trop_?"

Finch gave a little laugh and began gently to swing the hammock. "You'd
better ask them that."

"Even Eden," said Minny, "thought you were an unconventional lot."

"I suppose we are, but Arthur and I are such pals. He's a curious
fellow. Very sensitive and easily upset."

Minny burst out laughing, then pressed her hand to her mouth, glancing
fearfully at the lodge.

"Minny," asked Finch, rocking her a little harder, "what do you think of
my cousin? Do you like her?"

"Very much. I think she's the most striking girl I've ever seen. But I
don't think they're suited to each other. I don't think she'll make him
happy."

Finch turned away his face. He watched a flock of rooks wheeling above
the park.

Minny continued--"You and she would have been much better suited in my
opinion. I know I shouldn't say that, but I'm hopelessly candid." She
looked curiously into his face, but for once it revealed nothing.

"I strained my ankle," he said, tapping his boot with his stick, as
though forcibly to attract her mind from the dangerous subject of Sarah.

"Oh, what a pity!"

"It's nothing. What is worrying me is some bad news about my sister.
She's not well. She's got to have an operation."

"I have heard of that already. You mustn't worry. I'm sure she will be
quite all right. She complained when I was with her, but I don't think
it was anything serious."

She was made for the comforting of men, Finch thought. Her very tone
gave him reassurance. The relaxed curves of her body gave him a feeling
of tranquillity.

"How kind you are, Minny!" His hand dropped to hers. She clung to it,
swinging herself by it, smiling up at him.

Before he returned to the house he thought he would walk through the
walled garden where he and Sarah had been used to sit in the evenings.
He opened the door in the wall and looked about cautiously before
entering. If she were there he would not go in, would not risk the
danger of meeting her there. But the garden was empty except for the
figure of Ralph Hart, the gardener's boy, trundling a barrow along a
walk. Finch was surprised to see him at work at this hour, for it was
the time when he and his girl walked out together.

"Hello, Ralph," he said, strolling over to him, "you're working late
to-night."

Ralph touched his cap. "Gardening, zir. I thought I might as well finish
this job up. It'll be raining to-morrow by the look of the sun. He's
gone down in a proper stormy sky."

Finch inhaled a deep breath of the garden scents. "But it's a lovely
evening. You should be having a stroll with your girl."

"Her's had to go to nurse her mother. Her folk live down Clapwithy way,
near Beddelcoombe. 'Tis a long way, zir."

"I expect you miss her."

The boy gave a dreamy smile. "I feel fair mazed without her, zir. 'Tis
the first time her's gone off with hersen since we have been keepin'
company."

The interest with which Ralph's love for the stolid little maid had
invested him in Finch's mind was now greatly intensified by his new
feeling for Sarah. He wanted to say to Ralph--"How much better off you
are than I! You love a girl that you may one day marry, while I love one
who is already possessed by another." Instead, he asked:

"Have you ever been to Cornwall, Ralph? I remember that you told me your
mother came from there."

"No, zir. I've never been to Cornwall. Yet 'tis a nice place, my mother
says, with the sea and all."

"But you've seen the sea!"

"No, zir. I've never been to the sea. And the sea is very nice, so they
tell."

"But it's only a short distance away!"

"Yes, zir. I've been told that tidden far." He raised his eyes to the
purple tors that bounded his world for him.

Finch became excited. "Look here, Ralph, I'll tell you what you must do!
You must take your girl to the sea for your honeymoon, and I'll pay for
the trip."

"Thank you, zir. Her 'ud like that."

"But I suppose your marriage is a long way off. We can't wait for that!
You must take her the first fine Sunday. I'll hire the car for you." He
wished he might go with them, watch Ralph's face when his eyes first saw
the might of the sea and the granite cliffs. Yet Ralph would probably
say--"It's very nice, zir," and the girl stare stolidly without a word.

He no longer talked to Sarah of the pair. He avoided her, when it was
possible, enwrapping himself in isolation. He had no desire to
experience again the passionate emotions she had aroused in him.

When, after a few days, Arthur persuaded her to go on a motor trip and
they left for London to buy a car, Finch said good-bye to her almost
apathetically. Between him and Leigh an inexplicable coolness had
arisen, in which each felt that the other was the withholder of
confidence. Two days after their departure Mrs. Court returned to
Ireland. She already had in her mind another niece to take Sarah's
place.

One night Finch found Ralph stretched on his face on the long orchard
grass through which ivy pushed its way in its search for new trees to
climb. It was almost dark, an hour when the boy, if he were not walking
out with the maid, had always returned to his mother's cottage in the
village. He lifted a tear-stained face.

"Why, look here," exclaimed Finch, "wh--what's the matter?"

"I've had a master stroke of ill-luck, zir," he answered, in a husky
voice. "Her's written that her won't walk out with I no more." He lay
looking up at Finch in his young bewilderment like a wounded animal.

"But what is wrong? Have you had a quarrel?"

"No, zir. There was naught wrong when her left. I went to station with
she, and her kept sayin' what a fine do we'd have together when her came
back, with so much to tell me and all."

"What do you think has happened?"

"I don't know, zir. I feel mazed in the yead. But perhaps her's found
another lad."

"She'll never get another like you, Ralph! And see here, you mustn't
take her too seriously. Just wait till she comes back and have it out
with her. She'll come round, I'm sure."

Ralph hid his face on his arm. Finch saw that he wanted to be left
alone. He left him, but he could not get the thought of him out of his
mind. The dark, pale face, so different from the ruddy faces of the
other village youths, came between him and those in the house. Ralph and
he were linked together, tormented by their longing and despair.

For several days he saw Ralph only when working in the garden. He asked
his aunt when the girl was to return. The next day, Augusta said. He
told her of the trouble between the two, and she said that she wished
Ralph would get over his attachment for the girl, as she was not good
enough for him.

The next morning Finch found him in the vegetable garden sowing the seed
of winter spinach. He was squatting on the dark loam dropping the seeds
with an expression of almost tender melancholy on his young face. Autumn
sunshine gilded to a still beauty every object that it touched. In the
shadows there was a peculiar hush as of waiting.

"It's a lovely morning, Ralph," said Finch, with forced cheerfulness.

"Yes, zir. It's a lovely morning."

"It's as hot as July. I like a day like this."

"It's your luck you can enjoy it, zir."

"I wish I might see you as you were when I came here, Ralph."

"There's only one thing that'll make me like that again, zir."

"Well, she's coming home to-night. It isn't much longer to wait."

"No, zir, 'tidden long."

"To-morrow you'll be a different man."

"Ay, perhaps." He sat on his heels and looked up at Finch with something
of his former serenity. "I know where I can get you a very nice spannel,
zir, if you'd like one. Her's just gone three months and comes of a rare
good stock."

"I'll ask my aunt. She ought to have a dog here."

"You don't think you'll take it home with you then?" His tone was
wistful.

"It's a long way to take a dog."

"I suppose it is, zir. But this yere's a spannel."

"Yes, of course, that makes a difference," said Finch gently. "A spaniel
is a very nice dog to have. If you can get her for me, I'll take her
home." He could not resist the look of entreaty in those eyes. It seemed
to him that Ralph thought to get a little happiness through making him
happy.

That evening he saw him standing just outside the kitchen door talking
to the girl. His back was turned, but the girl's face showed white in
the dusk. Finch lingered near for a few minutes hoping to see them walk
towards the lane as before, but they stood very still talking in low
tones. Finch could just hear the rise and fall of the Devon tongue.

He lay awake that night thinking about Ralph and the girl. It was the
first night since his return from the sea that he had been able to lie
awake without the torment of Sarah's face before him.

When he had had his breakfast next morning, he went to the garden to
find Ralph. He was not there, and Finch was walking along the flagged
path towards the tennis court when he met the gardener running towards
him. Ash's fresh-coloured face was pallid, his mouth was wide open,
showing his smooth, toothless gums. He was gasping as though he had run
a long distance.

"Oh, zir," he managed to get out, "whatever shall us do? Ralph Hart's
lying over in the shed there poisoned! He's killed hissen!"

"He's not dead, is he?"

"I'm not sure; I think so. Will you come with me, zir?"

They ran together to the shed. Ralph was lying, curled up, in an
attitude of agony. They bent over him. Finch, shaking from head to foot,
peered into his face. It was a greenish colour, the mouth contorted and
stained with something. Beside him was a tin half filled with a liquid,
some of which had been spilled on the floor. This was the place where
garden implements were kept and where Arthur had told Finch of his love
for Sarah.

The gardener knelt down and felt the boy's heart. "'Tidden beating! He's
dead as can be!" Tears began to run down his face.

"We must tell my aunt," said Finch, with a feeling of numbness in his
limbs and throat. Could he move? Could he run to the house? He found
that he could, but he moved lurchingly. Ash, either because he was eager
to tell the news or because he was afraid to stay with the dead boy, ran
after him. They stood before Augusta, while behind her stood the cook
and the parlourmaid, who had followed her out to the drive. She had been
giving them their orders when, looking out of the window, they had seen
the two white-faced running figures approaching the house.

Augusta's self-control was admirable. She drew herself up and surveyed
them with a look of command.

"Are you sure he is dead?" she asked.

"Ay, that I am, my lady. There be no breath of life in un. I'll warrant
he were dead a quarter hour when I found un. He come to me hissen and
asked me for the poison spray us uses for plants, and I don't rightly
know the sense of why he swallered it, but swaller it he did. And it's
took he off proper!"

"Fetch the doctor as quickly as you can, Ash," said Augusta. "I must go
and break the news to his poor mother. But Ralph must not be left alone
there."

"I will stay with him." Finch said it between set teeth.

He stayed with Ralph's body until the doctor came. He stayed until it
was put on a hurdle and carried down to his mother's cottage. Augusta
spent most of the day with the poor mother, went with her to order
Ralph's coffin, interviewed the vicar, urging him to appeal to the
bishop for permission to have the boy buried inside the churchyard.

It was said that the little kitchenmaid cried aloud when she heard of
Ralph's death, declaring that it was not her fault, that she'd never
given him any encouragement.

"You've got to turn that girl out," said Finch savagely to his aunt. "We
can't have her staying on here. She's a beast. She killed Ralph."

"No," answered Augusta, firmly. "I cannot dismiss her. Any girl has the
right to change her mind. She wrote to him, quite kindly she tells me,
saying that he no longer attracted her."

"Little bitch!" sneered Finch.

"Finch! Not one word more of such language! I'm surprised at you. At
such a time too! I blame Renny very much for the language you boys use."

Finch muttered--"Renny's not to blame. A saint would use bad language
about that girl!"

A newspaper reporter came to Lyming and interviewed Ralph's sweetheart.
An article appeared in the local paper in which it was stated that Miss
Muriel Slater denied having ever been engaged to the suicide. She had
walked out occasionally with Hart, but that his company had of late been
distasteful to her and that he had tried to create a scene when she had
informed him of this.

The day of the funeral was the most beautiful day of the season. The
village, with its surrounding fields and meadows, appeared as tranquil
as a village in a dream surrounded by fields of powdered gold. Even the
dark Tors looked gold to-day, their heads hidden in a golden mist. In
striking contrast to this pervading colour in the landscape, the thorn
trees, covered thickly by scarlet berries, stood out in vivid procession
along the roadside.

Nymet Crews was one of those villages the centre of which is a level
green. Around it the whitewashed cottages gathered as though for
sociability, and, on the green, a loose horse and a cow or two were
almost always to be seen cropping the grass. The thatch of the cottages
also was transformed to gold on this day, and their drawn blinds, and
the closed shutters of the little shops, gave an air of great
tranquillity to the scene. Even the ducks on the pond seemed less noisy
to-day, floating in a peaceful group on its unruffled surface. Nymet
Crews had its idiot, and he, no larger than a boy of five, though he was
in truth past twenty, pushed himself about on his toy velocipede,
rolling his enormous goggle eyes in wonder at the unaccustomed air of
the street.

It was very hot for September. When Finch reached the foot of the hill
he took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his face and neck before
entering the village. He was embarrassed by the groups of women who
stood in doorways talking together. He felt that they were saying--"Here
comes her Ladyship's nephew. It was he that found the body.... It was he
that stayed with the body while the gardener fetched the doctor."

The cobbles of the narrow pavement felt hot beneath his feet. It was
easy to distinguish the cottage where Ralph's mother lived by the knot
of people standing at the door. Two women in black were hurrying across
the green towards it, as though fearful of being late. He went to the
door, and the group of people separated to let him pass. He saw the room
crowded, the coffin standing in the midst. He could not force himself to
enter. He turned hurriedly away, his face growing crimson under the gaze
of those about. He turned quickly back along the street till he came to
a lane where about twenty young men, friends of Ralph, were collected.
They wore their Sunday clothes of navy blue serge with bowler hats or
tweed caps. Their faces and hands looked hot and sunburned in this
apparel. Finch joined the group, but stood a little to one side. They
glanced curiously at him, then went on talking together. Talking among
themselves their dialect was so strong that only a phrase now and then
was intelligible to him. He made out something about a football match.
Evidently they had said all there was to say about Ralph's death, and
now their thoughts turned to other things.

He had feared he would be late, but it seemed a long time that he stood
there waiting. He saw his aunt come down the road and cross the common
into the narrow street that led to the church. She had put on black
clothes for the occasion. That was nice of her, he thought. She looked
tall and dignified and very tired, for it was the second time that day
she had taken the steep dusty walk.

Soon after she disappeared in the direction of the church the bell began
to toll. Nineteen solemn knells, one for each year of Ralph's short
life. Soon the funeral procession appeared from the cottage and made its
way slowly along the road.

The coffin was carried by six young men, four of them Ralph's brothers.
It was stained a light oak colour and highly varnished. It must have
been heavy, for the young men showed that they moved under a strain. On
the top of it were wreaths of bright flowers. The idiot boy moved his
velocipede on to the roadside so that he might miss nothing of the
procession. Following the coffin were relatives of the dead boy. Women
and young girls in black, carefully kept in drawers for occasions like
this. Men, some of them quite old. One of those, Finch thought, was the
grandfather. He was leading Ralph's mother. She looked bowed down by her
black and her grief, a stout thick-set figure, holding a handkerchief to
her eyes.

All the young men left the shelter of the lane and hurried across the
cobbles to join the procession. Their heavy boots made a clumping,
sinister sound to Finch's ears, as he went with them. Augusta had wanted
him to accompany her to the church, but he had been determined to follow
behind Ralph's body.




                                  XIV


                             EDEN AND FINCH

The stars had never seemed to hang so low in the sky as they did that
night. The various heavenly patterns which they formed stood out in
burning brightness. The full moon, when it swung clear of the hills,
appeared to be too large for the earth which lay flooded in its light.
The earth dwindled beneath the moon, overflowing with brightness, as a
green goblet held beneath the foam of a cascade. The moorside fields
were almost white, and, in contrast, the intricate design of the hedges
and copses was black as ebony. The silence was so deep that Finch,
standing on the dew-drenched lawn, could hear the murmur of the stream
beyond the orchard, the movement of sleepy birds on the bough.

Down below he could see the church tower rising out of the trees, and
about it clustering the village. Down there was Ralph's mother in her
cottage. Down there was Ralph in his grave. From the tower sounded the
four quarters, then slowly came eleven strokes. Soon the orange squares
of the drawing-room windows were darkened.

A white figure appeared out of the park and came toward him. It was
Eden. Since Mrs. Court had left he had come several times to the house.
But Augusta had not asked him to bring Minny. What she was really afraid
of was that if Eden once got Minny inside the house he and she would
settle down for a visit. Eden had remarked more than once that he was
tired of Minny's attempts at cooking.

On the one hand Augusta felt that it was her duty to force the young
couple into marriage by forbidding her house to them. On the other hand
she feared the responsibility of pushing Eden into a permanent union for
which he seemed by his temperament to be unfitted. Every time Eden came
near her he put his arm about her long sloping waist and remarked:

"Darling Auntie, you are the only one who understands me!"

"What about Minny?" Augusta had asked once, somewhat sternly.

And he had replied: "Minny is not intellectual. She is natural. She
doesn't need to understand. But you are both intellectual and natural."

She had looked dubious, but it was hard for her to resist him.

Now he asked:

"What are you looking so tragic about, Brother Finch?"

"Strange if I wouldn't," answered Finch heavily.

"You mean because of that boy who killed himself. But why feel tragic
about him? Sooner be envious of him. How much better off he is than we
are! He'll never get tired. His hair will never get thin and grey or the
sap dry up in his bones. He won't see his girl turn into a sloven or a
shrew, and his children turn out wrong. He's as bright and fixed as one
of those stars. Let's choose a star for him and name it Ralph Hart."

Finch raised his eyes to the stars. "Do you believe in life after death,
Eden? Do you believe that somewhere Ralph is conscious?"

"I shouldn't be surprised. Perhaps he is walking about a garden at this
moment. Perhaps he is looking in his girl's window trying to tell her
how glad he is she let him out of all that."

Finch exclaimed--"Eden, you contradict yourself! That time I tried to
drown myself and you stopped me--you said that life was better than
death, no matter what the suffering! You said that nothing you had ever
gone through had made you desire death for a moment. Life, life, life,
that was what you kept drumming into me. If everything else is gone, you
said, there is always the wind on the heath." He turned his troubled
young face to Eden's.

"I know. And I still think so. Whatever happens is best. This is a
glorious tree, isn't it, but if the next gale takes it down we shall
have a better view." He put his arm into Finch's. "Let's go for a walk!
We haven't had one together for a long time. Let's be jolly glad we are
alive and drink the moonlight like wine." He tugged at Finch, laughing
as though he had a joke hidden from the rest of the world.

Something magnetic in him drew Finch along. They went through a gap in
the hedge, through the park, and into the meadows. An immense sweetness
and purity enveloped them. Finch's mood of melancholy left him. A wild
joy in life surged through him as though it rose from the earth into his
body, rained down on him from the stars.

"If there's anything better than this," cried Eden, "I should like to
know it!" His hand slid down Finch's arm till their fingers were linked.
They strode along a winding shepherd's path hand in hand.

Each moment brought them new delight, made them more care-free. They
were flooded, as the earth was flooded by moonlight, with joy in their
own bodies. They went till they reached the moor. On its shaggy
vastness, among its silvered ling and bracken and gorse and heather they
laughed and sang. They felt swept clean of all the grief that had ever
been in them. Their bodies felt new and strong and sinless.

They threw themselves flat on the ground and stared at the moon.

"I give you back stare for stare, old moon!" shouted Eden. "I'm not
afraid! I'm alive! I had rather be Eden Whiteoak than anyone on earth!"

"And I had rather be Finch!" shouted Finch. "I'm alive! I'm alive! And
you, old moon, you are alive because the sun is kissing you!"

They were only on the skirts of the great waste of Dartmoor which
stretched beyond, its rolling hills that climbed upward to the hoary
heads of High Willhayes and Cawsand Beacon and Yes Tor. The fastness of
its granite, its bogs, its dark cushions of furze turned by the
moonlight to silver and amethyst. They could look back on newly-thatched
ricks, on the shapes of hillside fields which crept to the edge of the
moor, but they felt that they had left civilisation far behind them.
They felt that life must continue with them forever.




                                   XV


                            AUNT AND NEPHEW

Nicholas and Ernest decided to return to Jalna while the fair weather
held. They went to London, intending to spend ten days there before
sailing, but the ten days became a month and they ended by making the
voyage in heavy gales toward the end of October. By the time all their
expenses had been paid Finch found that his present of a trip to them
had been a costly one. But he did not regret it. He scarcely felt
interested in the fact.

A curious numbness had descended on him since the death of Ralph Hart.
After the night that he and Eden had spent on the moor he had
experienced an almost hallucinated happiness for several days. It had
seemed enough for him that he was alive and young. He turned from one of
the primitive pleasures of life to another, savouring each as though it
were the last time he was to enjoy it. He wanted to be alone in order
that all his senses might have unhampered play. He shunned Eden as
though fearing that the fire of his presence might shatter the clear
crystal of this mood.

He had gone to church on Sunday, sitting in the high carved pew with his
aunt. In the church he had felt a return of the sickness of spirit that
had shaken him during the funeral service. He could scarcely make
himself believe that Ralph's coffin was not in the church. He knelt,
pressing his knuckles into his eyes, trying to shut out the sight. The
musty smell of the old church became the smell of a grave. He perceived
the innumerable wormholes in the end of the pew and was filled with
loathing. His mind turned to the thought of Ralph in his grave, and tore
at it savagely like a persistent dog unearthing foulness. The hymns
became howls of mourning to him. He saw, near the back of the church,
all Ralph's relations in deep black. They had come in a body as was the
custom, on that first Sunday. Ralph's mother knelt during the entire
service, a bulky mourning figure, her face covered by her hands in black
cotton gloves.

Nicholas had remarked to Ernest that afternoon:

"The boy seems very down in the mouth. I think he should come up to
London with us. He's really wasting his time in the country when he
ought to be seeing life."

"He's a strange, moody boy," Ernest had replied. "One never quite knows
how he will take things. I thought he was very callous about that young
gardener's death. He scarcely spoke of it. But this morning, after
service, when we passed the boy's relations all gathered about his
grave, Finch's face was working as though he were going to cry."

"He ought to come up to London with us. He needs a change after the
shock he had. He's a bundle of nerves like his poor flibbertigibbet
mother." The shadow on Ernest's face, caused by his anxiety over Finch,
deepened to gloom at what he could only consider Nick's mimicry of their
mother.

But when they approached Finch on the subject of accompanying them, he
said that he wanted to remain in Devon. While Augusta was flattered by
his desire to remain, the thought of being entirely rid of visitors was
not unpleasing to her. She was afraid, too, that if Finch stayed behind
she would see more and more of Eden and Minny. It was becoming the
problem of her life how to get them to remove from the lodge. But she
could not definitely ask Eden to go, since he had no money to go on.
Really, she thought, what with two difficult elderly brothers in the
house and a fidgety friend like Mrs. Court, and a moody boy, and a
marriage, and a suicide, she needed a rest.

Well, what was Finch going to do? Was he going to London later? Was he
going to Paris or Rome? It was usual for young men to sow a few wild
oats in these places, the elderly men suggested.

Yes, he would see those places later. Just now what he wanted was to be
let alone. Soon after this Nicholas and Ernest left for the return
journey.

He took long walks about the countryside. The ankle he had strained at
the sea was still weak, and he learnt to ease it by the carrying of a
stick. Soon the figure of the tall, thin boy with the stick was familiar
to all in the neighbourhood. Many a time he thought of the spaniel bitch
Ralph Hart had been going to get him. He began to picture it as trotting
at his heels.

Once at dusk when he was returning from a walk he was just about to
enter the drive when he saw the figures of two girls in cap and apron.
They had been speaking to a young man on a bicycle, and they now stood
giggling together at some remark of his. Finch saw that one of them was
the kitchen-maid, Ralph's girl. He was suddenly aflame with anger at the
sight of her on the roadside making free with a passing youth. Her round
white face, which he had never seen in any but this dim light, was
widened by a smile. He went up to her, raising his stick.

"I should think you would be ashamed of yourself!" he said loudly. "Go
into the house and never let me see you out on this road again!"

The two girls fled in terror from him. He strode along the drive,
swinging his stick, bristling with rage. He expected to hear next day
that the girl had given notice, but that was the end of the incident.
After that, when she saw him coming, she scurried out of sight.

It was the first time he had ever spoken in a tone of authority to
anyone but Wakefield, and Wake gave little heed to any authority of his.
The fact that the girl was not his servant, that he had no right to
speak to her so, did not trouble him. He only felt a fierce satisfaction
in the thought that he had made her afraid of him. He strode up and down
the floor of his bedroom, taking a fierce pleasure in the fright he had
given her. He said aloud:

"I stopped bang in front of her and raised, my stick and said--'I should
think you would be ashamed of yourself! Go into the house and never let
me see you on this road again!'" His face again reddened. He raised his
stick, imitating his own gesture.

The thought of Sarah had been put out of his mind by the shock of Ralph
Hart's suicide. Her face, which had come between him and all he saw, was
replaced by the horribly contorted face of Ralph as he lay on the floor
of the shed. That face had glared at him out of the garden loam, out of
the flying clouds of autumn, out of the wallpaper in his room, out of
the darkness of his own closed eyelids.

After his encounter with Ralph's girl another change took place in him.
By degrees the image of Ralph's dead face faded, and once again he was
haunted by the face of Sarah. A remarkable peculiarity about this change
was that, day by day, the dead boy's expression grew less agonised,
until he finally appeared in brown-throated serenity, his eyes darkly
bright, and that Sarah's image, in a like degree, frequently assumed the
dreadful contortions of the suicide. This expression troubled Finch most
deeply when he had gone to bed. He would dig his face into his pillow,
trying to smother the terror of it.

He came to hate the thought of Sarah. He came to imagine that she had
served him as cruelly as the kitchen-maid had served Ralph. He coupled
the thought of the two females together. Ralph's girl had driven him to
suicide, and Sarah was driving him to insanity. He pictured her as
deliberately haunting him with that terrifying expression. Her power so
to torment him at will was borne out in his mind by the strangeness he
had always felt in her. He remembered his own attempt at suicide, and,
in some mysterious manner, he began to blame her for that.

When the subject of Sarah came up between him and Augusta he now
disparaged her. "She's a queer sort of girl," he said once. "I'm afraid
poor Arthur has made a big mistake. I think he's going to find himself
up against it. I should hate to be in his shoes."

"I shall be very sorry if the match turns out badly," said Augusta.
"He's such a nice boy. And I'm fond of Sarah too. You know, dear, when
you first came I thought you and Sarah might be drawn to each other, but
I see how mistaken I was. You never would have got on with her."

"Get on with that girl! Never! I'm attracted by an entirely different
sort of girl. I like a girl that can be a pal to a fellow."

This expression, as a matter of truth, was repugnant to him. The thought
of a woman he loved being a _pal_ to him was distasteful. He only used
the word because it implied something so different from what Sarah was
or ever could be.

Another time he said--"You should have seen her walking on the downs,
Aunt! There was no more freedom in her movements than in the movements
of a Chinese woman. I don't know what's the matter with her, but she
seems to be too tightly put together." And almost at the next moment, a
pang of cruel lust for her went through him.

Leigh wrote to him dilating on the beauties of the Lake country, then, a
month later, of France, where they were going to spend the winter. Finch
read the letters greedily, noting how much Arthur wrote of what he was
seeing and how little of what he was feeling. He fancied that Arthur
wrote cautiously. He did not answer either letter. Leigh and Sarah both
wrote several times to Augusta. Finch listened judicially, smoking his
pipe, while Augusta read Arthur's letters aloud. But, when she began to
read Sarah's letter to him, he exclaimed:

"Please don't trouble to read her letters to me! I know just the sort of
boring thing she'd write."

"It's not at all boring," said Augusta, as she reached the end. "It's
very bright." She folded the letter and put it in her writing bureau.

When she had gone upstairs after lunch to lie down Finch went to the
bureau and took out the letter. He turned it over several times in his
hands, then he opened it and read it. It was unexpectedly simple and
girlish. He read and re-read it, his eyes dwelling on the words "Please
remember me affectionately to Finch." He went to the piano and played
almost noiselessly, so as not to disturb his aunt, some of the pieces he
had played with Sarah.

He saw her with the utmost clarity standing beside the piano with her
violin under her chin. He could hear the piercingly sweet notes of it as
in imagination he accompanied her. He could see her sweet secret mouth,
the pinched elegance of her nostrils. He held his breath for fear her
face should contort in the expression of agony which it sometimes
assumed for him. But, as long as he played, it remained steadfastly
serene and as though lighted by some inner radiance.

In the late autumn he heard of the Stock Market crash in New York. He
read the newspaper headings concerning it with very little emotion.
Augusta was distressed when he told her that he had lost thirty thousand
dollars. She blamed his brothers and hers for having allowed him to
invest so much in a foreign country. Eden, too, was aghast. He told
Finch that since it was his intention to throw away his money, he might
as well throw some of it in his direction. Finch did not remind him
that, when he had first told him of the investment, Eden had applauded
his initiative.

Soon he had a letter bearing an American stamp. It was from Miss Trent
and was almost hysterical in its reiterations. She had lost everything,
everything. But she would repay the ten thousand she had borrowed from
him, if she had to starve herself to do it. She wrote a five-page
explanation of the crash, full of technical terms that showed what she
called her "terrific intimacy" with the doings of Wall Street. She ended
by being optimistic and declaring that she would be in a position to
repay the loan in a year at the most. She had given Finch a promissory
note which was due the first of December. He put her letter in a drawer
of his dressing-table but he did not answer it. Augusta heaved a sigh
when Finch told her of this additional loss. Her mother's money, over
which there had been so much discussion, so many hopes and
disappointments, was fast disappearing.

The mortgage on Vaughanlands which Finch had taken over was fifteen
thousand dollars. The interest payable twice yearly was now due. A
letter in Maurice's handwriting arrived. He wrote--

                  *       *       *       *       *

    "I thought perhaps you would not mind waiting a bit for the
    money. Things have gone rather badly with me this year. And now
    this operation of Meggie's is giving me a lot of worry. I have
    had a large bill to pay to the doctor already, and the
    specialist who is going to operate will of course charge a big
    price. You can be certain that I care nothing about the cost if
    only he can bring her through it safely. They say the danger is
    not great, but one can never tell how those things will go.
    Meggie is as courageous as possible. She sends her best love.
    She would have written you long ago but she has been ailing all
    summer. Patty is growing prettier all the time. The other day
    Meggie asked her--Where is Uncle Finch? And Patty answered--In
    Heaven! Well, I suppose Devon is almost Heaven. You are lucky. I
    expect to be in hell for the next few days, at any rate. Meggie
    goes into the hospital to-morrow.

    "Will you give my kind regards to your aunt. Meg and Patty both
    send love and kisses.

                                                    .Yours,
                                                        MAURICE."

Finch folded the letter with shaking hands. His Meggie, his darling
sister Meggie, in such danger! Perhaps he would never see her again....
He remembered the time when he had been ill at Vaughanlands and she had
sat by him and fed him as though he were a baby. He remembered the feel
of her tender feminine hands on his hair, the ineffable sweetness of her
smile. Oh, she was so loving, so unselfish! If only all the brothers had
been like her, how happy they might have been!

He reflected, as his mind calmed a little, that if she had not come
through the operation he should have had a cable by now. Perhaps, some
day soon, he would get a letter to say she was doing nicely. In the
meantime better not say anything to Aunt Augusta to worry her. Though
she knew the operation was pending she didn't know of its imminence.

He went into her dressing-room, where he had seen a small bookcase, in
search of something to read. More than any room in the house, this one
was saturated with the personality of Augusta. Its sun-blinds were
always half-drawn like drooping eyelids. Under them the room seemed to
look out on the world with an air of offence. Finch now disliked being
in there because the windows overlooked the tennis court, and beyond it
the toolhouse where Ralph Hart had died.

He ran his eyes along the titles of the books--_The Scarlet Pimpernel_,
_Robert Elsmere_, _The Prisoner of Zenda_, _The Lady of the Lake_. What
books were these? Were they old favourites of his aunt's that she liked
to dip into at odd times? Or were they relegated here because of their
shabby binding? Nothing on that shelf. He glanced at the one below. _The
Silence of Dean Maitland_, _Friendship_, _Chandos_, _Lady Audley's
Secret_, _It Cometh up as a Flower_ ... _Hypatia_, _Ben Hur_, _A Pair of
Blue Eyes_. Five of Eden Phillpotts. Well, Devon explained them. _The
Heavenly Twins_, _The Gods_, _Some Mortals_, and _Lord Wickenham_. On
the bottom shelf the books were so shabby that the titles were
illegible. They were wedged in so tightly that it was not easy to
dislodge the large one at the end, the size of which attracted him. He
carried it to the window. It was a medical book for the layman. Perhaps
he could find out in this book what might be wrong with Meggie. He read
and read, listening at the same time fearfully for his aunt's step on
the stair. The more he read, the more bewildered and more horror-struck
he became. Why, there were a thousand things that might be wrong with
Meggie! And each one of them worse than the last. His head pounding, his
nerves unstrung, he forgot to listen for Augusta. Women, he thought,
why, it was better never to be born at all than be born a woman! How had
Meggie lived so long as she had without disaster? How had Grandmother
achieved her hundred years? It was a miracle. As he read his heart bled
for the mothers of men.




                                  XVI


                                 JALNA

Rain was steadily falling on the old house. It was a cold rain for the
end of May, and it fell, not in drops, but in a slanting sleet that beat
against the panes and ran down them in rivulets to form puddles on the
sills. The fact that the panes could not be seen through was a matter of
no significance, for the eyelids of all in the house were closed in
sleep. The changes worked on the flower beds, trees, and lawn by the
rain, cold as it was, would not be observed until the morning sun
revealed flowers from yesterday's buds, buds from yesterday's sheaths,
leaves shaken out to full size, and grass in a thousand springing
spears.

The rain entered the house at two points, the attic and the basement.
Through rotted shingles it dripped into Finch's vacant room. Soon after
Finch had gone abroad, Wragge had placed a basin on the floor during a
heavy rain, to catch the drip. He had not been in the room since, so he
had not observed that the basin was full. Now the drops falling from the
ceiling struck the water with a clear musical note, sending tiny ripples
to the brim that overflowed silently on to the worn carpet. The daylight
would show this room with a bereft air. Its furniture, most of which
needed repairing, had been the ramparts of Finch's world. In the
cupboard hung his worn clothes, still showing the impress of his body.

The rain came into the basement through a crack beneath a window,
outside which it collected from the soaking ground above. From the
window ledge it dropped with a smart rapping sound to the brick floor
beneath. This sound, entering Wragge's consciousness, caused him to
dream that he was back in the trenches and that the Germans were
bombarding the British position. His sleep became more and more
troubled. His snores turned to gaspings, and Mrs. Wragge, woken by his
distress, put out her hand to quiet him. The result was the opposite of
what she intended. The instant the large heavy hand was placed on his
head he imagined that a fat German had captured him and he uttered a
yell of fright.

Old Benny, the bob-tailed sheep dog, who slept on a mat in the hall
above, heard in his sleep the echo of the yell. He had been dreaming of
a strange creature, half-tramp and half-sheep, that had been prowling
about the shrubbery. He had been stalking it through illimitable spaces
of time without its having perceived him. Suddenly it turned, peered at
him with the face of a man, uttering at the same time the metallic bleat
of a sheep. His hackle rose and, with a sonorous growl, he leaped and
caught it by the throat.

Upstairs Nip slept in Nicholas's armchair. He refused to sleep anywhere
but in his master's bedroom. He always had one ear cocked for the sound
of the deep voice he loved. Now he was in his first sleep of the night
and the sound of Ben's growl came up to him. It came as the voice of his
master saying--"Nip, Nip, catch a spider, Nip!" He stood on the seat of
the chair, quivering. He gave tremulous whines, part pleasure and part
fear. His eyes were fixed on the door though the darkness hid it from
him.

Wakefield, snuggled against Renny's side, was the only one of the family
who heard Nip's whining. He opened his eyes, saw that it was black
night, heard the little quivering sound again, and shivered all over.

"Renny," he whispered tugging at his brother's sleeve. "What's that
noise?"

Renny grunted drowsily. "Nothing. Go to sleep."

"But I heard something strange. Like someone crying."

"Mooey. Having a bad dream."

Wakefield sat upright, listening. Nip, at that moment, jumped from the
chair to the floor and scratched at the door. "There! Listen to that!
There's something very queer going on."

Renny, to satisfy him, got up and went into the passage. He listened but
heard nothing. Nip had gone back to bed. Then the growl came again, from
below. Renny remembered a loutish stable boy he had dismissed that day
for kicking a horse. He had pitched him bodily out of the gate and the
fellow had gone off shaking his fist. It might be as well to see that
everything was all right downstairs. He lighted a candle and made the
round of the principal rooms. All was quiet, Benny curled up again on
his mat wagging his stub of a tail to show that he was quite capable of
handling the situation.

The light from Renny's candle fell across Piers's face as he passed his
door. Piers's eyelids slowly raised and he looked sleepily about
wondering what had waked him. He was deliciously comfortable. An earthy
tenderness was diffused through all his being. Pheasant's breathing came
quick and soft beside him like that of a sleeping fawn. He drew her to
him, his lips touching her bare shoulder.

It might be considered then that the falling rain which opened new
flowers in the garden that night was also responsible for the conception
of a new Whiteoak.




                                  XVII


                                SEXTETTE

It had been many a long year since the family at Jalna numbered as few
as six. It took those who remained some time to get used to the empty
places at table. The vacancy left by the heavy figure of Nicholas was
especially hard to get used to. Renny did not like it at all. It was
like losing his grandmother over again to have her sons, whom he had
always at his side, go off like this. Alayne suggested that they take
the leaves from the table so that they might draw closer together about
it, but the idea was abhorrent to him. So he and she continued to sit
facing each other across the long stretch of table-cloth on which stood
the ponderous silver that made even breakfast seem a weighty meal. On
one side of the table sat Pheasant and Piers, on the other Wakefield,
looking very small and self-important.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," ejaculated Renny one morning. "We'll have
Mooey take his meals with us. He's plenty old enough. Have a place set
for him at dinner, Alayne. He can sit beside Wake."

The thought of a child of barely three sharing the family meals was
distasteful to Alayne. She pictured a crumby face and a baby voice
reiterating demands for helpings of the grown-up food. She tried to keep
her voice even and her expression unruffled but both failed her. Her
voice had a little rasp of irritation in it, and a pucker appeared on
her forehead as she answered:

"Don't you think Mooey is too small? I'm sure Pheasant does."

Pheasant's first thought had been--"Oh, how sweet to have the little
darling at the table!" But, when she found that Alayne did not want him,
she turned doubtfully to Piers and asked:

"What do you think? Is he too small?"

Piers, with a swift glance at Alayne's face, answered:

"Wake sat up at table when he was smaller."

Renny broke into laughter at the recollection, "Of course he did! I can
just see him. All eyes. And Gran used to dip bits of biscuit in her wine
and feed him."

Alayne could imagine the scene. The old woman, even then past ninety,
popping wet morsels into the mouth of the baby boy. She said sharply:

"Perhaps that is the reason why Wakefield's digestion is not stronger
to-day."

"Nonsense," retorted Renny. "Gran often said that she saved his life!
He'd no appetite. It was only she who could tempt him."

"I remember! I remember!" cried Wakefield. "I'd be sitting between
Meggie and my Grandmother, and I'd have no appetite at all. Meggie would
be holding a spoon in front of me and I'd turn my face away and say--'No,
no'--and then Gran would lean over me, and she'd look simply enormous
with her cap and a shawl, and she'd say--'Open your mouth, Bantling'--and
I'd open it wide, and she'd put the most _delicious_ little blob of
biscuit into it and the wine would run down my chin on to my bib!"

Rags had been an interested listener to the conversation. He was
cognisant of every slightest change of inflection or expression. He now
said, in his nasal voice:

"I hope you'll pardon me speaking, Madam. But I 'ad just arrived at
Jalnar at that time. And it was always my opinion that the little boy
might 'ave pined away an' died if 'e 'adn't got the attentions 'e did
from 'is Grandmother. Coming right after the sights I'd seen in the War,
madam, I thought it was the prettiest picture I'd ever be'eld."

Alayne regarded him with icy disapproval. But Renny grinned up at him
showing every tooth, resembling his grandmother to a degree very
irritating to Alayne, though in this he was blameless.

Piers said--"Well, of course, there would be one advantage in having the
kid take his meals with us. As it is, the kitchen-maid has either to
look after him just when she's needed in the kitchen, or he has to be
down there during meal-time."

"And always the dynger of getting scalded!" put in Rags.

Alayne looked into the marmalade jar. "Please take this to the kitchen
and have it filled," she said sternly. "It's been put on the table
almost empty, and you can see what the edge is like."

Rags gave her an astonished look as he took the jar, as though he would
say--"Well, who comes 'ere ordering me abaht!"

Since her return to Jalna as mistress Alayne had been diffident about
giving orders to him. It was easy enough to give orders to the cook or
the kitchen-maid. They were respectful and friendly. But she felt a cold
antagonism in Rags, a resentment, and a desire to thwart her at every
turn. He was aware, she felt sure, of her dislike of his intruding into
the conversation of the family, and consequently he intruded the more
often. He was aware that she was sensitive to draughts, and it seemed to
her that there was one in every room. In old Adeline's time she had felt
stifled often for lack of air, but it seemed not to matter to the
Whiteoaks whether the air they, breathed was vitiated or a veritable
whirlwind. Sometimes the presence of the little Cockney in the house was
almost more than she could bear.

When he had gone she said:

"I think Bessie can easily be spared at meal-time to look after Mooey.
She gets the vegetables ready for cook, brings in the fuel, and, after
Pheasant goes to him, Bessie is ready to wash up. I can't see that she
is needed in the kitchen at meal-time."

"That's quite beside the point," said Renny. "It's the servants'
business to get their work done whether or no. I was talking about the
look of the table. Too damned lonely."

Wakefield, responsive to Renny's mood, exclaimed:

"I think the table looks awfully lonely!"

"Well," said Alayne, "I think you're the most sentimental people I've
ever known. For my part I think we could be very cosy, if only you would
take the leaves out, as I suggested, Renny, and make the table smaller."
She had longed to speak sharply to Wakefield, but had managed to
restrain herself.

A chill breeze from the shady side of the house blew in on her off the
wet lawn. Without a word she rose and went to the window and tried to
close it. It was swollen by the damp and she could not move it. For an
instant Renny watched her struggles, then he sprang up and came to her
side.

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted the window shut?" he asked, bringing
it down with a bang.

She gave a little shrug and returned to her chair. Piers and Pheasant
exchanged a look. Wakefield saw the look and stared inquisitively at
Alayne.

Piers said--"Where is the marmalade? It was here a moment ago."

"I gave the jar to Wragge to have it filled," said Alayne. Piers could
not have failed to see her do it. He was doing his part to irritate her
evidently.

Piers looked at his wrist-watch. "Well, I must be off. I can't wait for
it."

"Oh, don't go without your marmalade, Piers!" said Pheasant, holding him
by the sleeve. "You're so fond of it. Do ring the bell, Wake, and hurry
Rags along!"

Wakefield ran to the bell-cord and pulled it violently. It was seldom
used now, and had become frayed and unable to bear strain. At the second
tug it broke in his hand.

"Now, there," exclaimed Renny, "what are you trying to do?"

"There was no need to be so rough," said Pheasant. "Alayne, I do wish
you had not sent the marmalade pot away before Piers had got some. There
was plenty in it for him."

"Go to the top of the stairs and shout to Rags," said Piers.

Wakefield, waving the end of bell-cord, ran to the stairs, crying--"Rags!
Hurry up!" Before he returned to the table, he ran twice round it waving
the cord.

"Sit down!" growled the master of Jalna, and he gave an apologetic grin
towards Alayne's end of the table. His eyes avoided hers.

Wragge came panting into the room.

"_Where_ is the marmalade?" demanded Pheasant.

Wragge looked injured.

"W'y, I was just fetching it, 'm, when first came the ring of the bell,
and right on top of that a shout. It gave me such a turn that I dropped
it. I thought there must be something hurgent, 'm."

"It is urgent. Did you break the jar?"

"Well, 'm, I 'ope not. I know I was a bit long, but Mrs. W'iteoak"--he
made a bow, half-cringing, half-impudent, to Alayne--"she complained of
the way the jar was washed, so I 'ad to find Mrs. Wragge to get 'er to
wash it--the maid being upstairs minding the little boy, 'm--and I was
just fetching it when the ring and the shout came."

"Please bring some more, and hurry. Mr. Piers is waiting."

Alayne sat silent, sipping her tea, trying to control her irritation, to
conceal her hatred of the little Cockney. She said to herself--"It is
nothing. I must not be easily upset. This is my life." ... A mental
picture was presented to her of breakfast at her father's table. The
little embroidered mats on the round polished table, the slender silver
vase holding perhaps three roses, the fragile china, the grape-fruit,
loosened from its rind, sweetened and decorated with Maraschino cherries
by her mother the night before, the delicious coffee. Her father reading
an editorial from the _New York Times_ in his slow, precise New England
voice. Her mother exquisitely neat, with her special digestive bread and
her dish of stewed figs before her. Before she was aware of it her eyes
filled with tears.

Her thoughts were broken by the sound of Mooey's voice at the door.
Wragge was standing in the hall with the little boy on his sloping
shoulder.

"Oh, what a nish brekkus!" Mooey was saying. "Hello, Mummy! I've got a
nish 'orsie to wide!"

Pheasant cried--"Hello, darling!" Then--"Why did you bring him down,
Rags?" But she was obviously pleased.

Wragge answered--"'E was crying' 'is little eyes out, 'm, being left
alone by Bessie for a bit while she went to answer the door, I being in
the kitchen at the time, along o' the marmalade jar."

"He deserves a licking for crying for that," observed Piers, eating
marmalade as though it were a delicacy he had never tasted before.

"Don't be such a harsh parent, Father," said Pheasant.

"Don't Father me!"

Pheasant continued--"But it is rather inconvenient taking Bessie from the
kitchen to mind him when he'd be quite all right here, isn't it?" She
cast a propitiatory glance at Alayne.

Wakefield exclaimed, through a mouthful of toast--"Come to your old
uncle, Mooey!"

"I want to go to Unca Renny," said Mooey, holding out his arms.

Wragge sidled into the room with the child. Renny took him on his knee.

It was a small thing, thought Alayne, but it showed their attitude
toward her. They had all known that she did not want the child brought
to the table, but his presence was to be inflicted on her nevertheless.
The presence of such a young child was an affliction, she persisted in
her mind. There would be still less possibility of sensible conversation
now. Not that the conversation at Jalna was ever intellectually
stimulating to her. But now she foresaw that the cleverness or
naughtiness of a baby would be its centre. Renny was already looking
pleased, feeding the child from his plate, Wragge beaming down at them.

It seemed that they would never finish breakfast. Piers had forgotten
his haste. Pheasant was leaning forward gazing at her child. Alayne
noticed a long "runner" on the shoulder of her knitted jumper.
Wakefield's hair looked as though it had not been brushed that morning.
He was saying in a whining voice:

"I aren't very well this morning. I don't think I should go to lessons."

"You're perfectly well," returned his elder brother. "Get along with
you! It's nine o'clock."

Alayne rose from the table. "I think you will have to excuse me," she
said. "I must see cook at once about the dinner."

Renny half rose, still holding the child. He caught her dress as she
passed and drew her to him. She went rigidly like an offended little
girl. The moment he touched her, dignity seemed to fall from her. Her
intellectual clarity made her aware of this and, while she despised
herself for her weakness, her resentment toward him increased. He held
up his face to be kissed, his lips pouted, the darkness of his eyes
deepened. She was in no mood to kiss him, still less in the presence of
the family. She shook her head, compressing her lips.

His eyebrows went up. He formed with his lips--"What's the matter with
you?"

"Kiss him! Kiss him!" cried Mooey, tugging at her.

Alayne kissed him instead. He had left a sticky mark on her sleeve where
he clutched her.

"Don't mind us!" cried Pheasant gaily. "I've never seen you two kiss and
I'd love to."

"Our form improves as the day wears on," returned Renny.

Alayne was offended and she did not trouble to hide it. Yet, as she
descended the stairs to the basement, she had the feeling of having been
priggish.

Mrs. Wragge usually came upstairs for her orders. She greatly preferred
to do this, for, as she put it to her husband: "I don't want none of the
ladies nosin' about in my kitchen. Miss Meggie, she stayed out of it.
Mrs. Piers, she stays out of it. Now let Mrs. Renny stop out of it!"

Consequently Alayne received a very glum greeting from her when she
appeared in the kitchen.

Looking Mrs. Wragge in the eyes, she asked--"Is anything wrong, Cook?"

Mrs. Wragge, rather taken aback by this quick pouncing on her unusual
aspect, said:

"I ain't just myself this morning along o' my innards. I come over sick
in the night. I should be in me bed, but I wouldn't ast for the time
off, not with Bessie spendin' hours upstairs mindin' the baby and me
'usband smashin' marmalade jars on me clean floor."

"It was ridiculous," said Alayne, conscious that Wragge was within
hearing, "for him to drop the jar just because the bell rang."

"Oh, Alfred's a bundle o' nerves, 'e is, along o' shell shock and worry
over the way me innards took on last night." She folded her stout arms
on her heaving bosom and regarded Alayne with something approaching
defiance. "An' were you wantin' anything special down 'ere this morning,
'm?"

"I thought I would just have a look about the pantries. And I want to
see how much canned fruit and jam is left, so we shall know how much to
put up this year."

"There ain't none left," said Mrs. Wragge, following her into the
larder, "nor 'asn't been for months. I could 'ave done down a lot more
than I did, but there weren't no bottles to put it in."

"Then, why ever didn't you say so?"

"I did, 'm. I ast Mr. W'iteoak for more before he set out for England to
'is weddin', but 'e said that things were too easy broke in this 'ouse
and that if there wasn't jam pots enough we must do with less jam."

Alayne felt that this remark was thrown at her with the intention of
intimidating her. She felt that the three servants were aware that she
was not used to dealing with servants and that therefore they intended
to impose on her. She had, up to this moment, liked Mrs. Wragge, had
thought her quite superior to her jaunty little husband, but now she
began to dislike her. Holding her head high she preceded the cook into
the larder and began to investigate conditions there with a rather
quaking spirit.

First of all was the smell. She did not like the smell at all.

"I don't see what it can be, 'm," declared Mrs. Wragge sniffing. "There
ain't nothing 'ere to smell. Bessie scrubs it out on 'er 'ands and knees
every day of 'er life."

"What is in this crock?" asked Alayne, lifting its lid. It was half full
of biscuits and small cakes tossed in together. She picked up a biscuit.
It was as limp as a bit of flannel. "Don't you know," she said severely,
"that biscuits should not be put in with cakes? After this, keep them
quite separate."

She saw butter on three different dishes, all uncovered. She saw a large
bowl which had held preserves and now was empty but unwashed, with a
lining of green mould, across which a spider scuttled. She saw a cheese
half-finished while a fresh one was cut into. She saw milk and cream at
every stage from that morning's to wrinkled sourness. Lifting a heavy
silver dish-cover she discovered a roast of meat that was unquestionably
the cause of the smell. For all these things she reproved Mrs. Wragge.
When she discovered an old Staffordshire bowl filled with left-over
beetroot, her reproof was inflamed to denunciation of such practices.

From the larder she went to the china-closet and pointed out that the
china was not properly washed. Instead of a glittering and pure surface,
it showed a dull one; it was not smooth to the touch.

"Well, 'm," declared Mrs. Wragge desperately, "they're washed every
blessed time in strong suds."

"I smell it on them," said Alayne. "They are not half-rinsed." Mentally
she recalled the stark immaculateness of the china-closet in the house
of her aunts, on the Hudson.

She went to the kitchen and drew Mrs. Wragge's attention to the
blackened condition of the saucepans. She drew her attention to the fact
that the glazing on every one of the platters in the big platter-rack
was cracked from overheating.

Bessie was in the scullery plucking fowls. Their feathers whitened the
floor like snow. They were even in her thick black hair and sticking to
her plump neck. She was a pretty girl with a turned-up nose and full red
lips. She got to her feet when Alayne appeared, looking rather
frightened. She held the fowl by one leg, its ghastly beak touching the
floor. Its fellows, already plucked, lay on the table beside her.

"Don't you think, Bessie," said Alayne pleasantly, "that it would be
better if you were to have a box to put the plumage in?"

Bessie did not know what plumage was and she looked still more
frightened.

Alayne remained a little longer trying to talk cheerfully and arranging
with Mrs. Wragge to have a tour of inspection of the basement once every
week. Next time, she thought, it would be much easier. Then she would
penetrate into the mysterious bricked passage that led to the
wine-cellar. She longed to see the place in perfect order. It would help
to fill in the time to keep it so, for time often hung heavy on her
hands. On the way to the stairs she passed a dishevelled bedroom and had
a glimpse of Wragge making the bed, a cigarette in his mouth.

She felt tired but not ill-pleased with herself as she went to her
bedroom. She would show these servants that she was not a figure-head.
She would show Piers and Pheasant that she was as much mistress of Jalna
as Renny was master. She would show Renny....

She was astonished to find Mooey in her room. He was standing in front
of her dressing-table, and he had a tin of talcum powder in his hand.
She saw that he was sprinkling all her toilet articles with the powder,
that he had already whitened his hair, and that the rug and chairs
showed what could be done with a single tin of talcum.

She was tired and irritated or she would not have been so sharp with
him. "Oh, you naughty boy!" she said, giving him a shake, "don't ever
dare come into my room again!"

He looked up at her, tears springing to his eyes. He made his mouth
square and uttered a howl of woe. She hustled him to the door and pushed
him into the passage. As she turned back she saw that old Benny was
lying in the middle of her new mauve silk bedspread. He was curled up
tightly, with one hazel eye rolled toward her, with an air that
intimated that it would take more than her disapproval to budge him from
this new-found nest.

It was perhaps the first time in Alayne's life that she had experienced
the violence of primitive rage. She knew that he had fleas, for she
often saw him scratching himself. And after last night's rain his paws
were certain to be muddy. She snatched up a slipper and struck him
sharply with the heel of it, first on the head, then on the stern. The
effect of retribution on Mooey was as nothing compared to its effect on
Ben. He screamed as though all the bad dreams he had ever had were come
true. He jumped from the bed, leaving a dark moist imprint of himself,
but instead of running out of the room he took refuge under the bed.
From there, on hands and knees, she was obliged to dislodge him with the
slipper. By now she was almost beside herself. She followed him to the
door and threw the slipper after him. He bounded down the passage
yelping hysterically. Mooey was still wailing. Pheasant appeared at the
door of her room with him in her arms.

"Why, Alayne, Mooey says you hit him! Whatever had he done?" Pheasant
looked very much the offended mother.

"He threw powder all over my room," answered Alayne hotly. "Really,
Pheasant, he must not be allowed to go in there by himself. He's too
mischievous."

"Was that all?" said Pheasant coldly.

Renny came up the stairs with Benny mourning at his heels. "What have
you been doing to poor old Ben? I've never heard him make such a row."
When he saw Alayne's face he burst into loud laughter. She had got the
talcum on her hands, then on her nose and chin. Her hair, for once, was
ruffled.

Quite unconscious of her appearance she regarded him with an air of
hauteur. She said:

"You may think it is amusing but I don't. That dog has ruined my silk
bedspread, and that child has made my room look no better than Bessie's
scullery."

Pheasant said, patting her son on the back, while he stared at Alayne
wet-eyed, as though she were an ogress:

"I think that cats and a canary would suit you better than dogs and a
baby, Alayne." She returned to her room still comforting her child.

"I like dogs and children as well as anybody, but I like them to behave
themselves and to know their place."

"Let's see what the damage is," said Renny, leading the way into her
room. He glanced at the floor, the dressing-table, and the bed. "That
will all brush off," he said soothingly.

"It may off the rug," she returned, "but the bedspread is _ruined_!"

"Can't you send it to the cleaners?"

"Of course I can! And have it come home all slimpsey like my dress did.
The cleaners over here aren't nearly so good as I'm used to."

He could not take her seriously, looking as she did. His face broke into
a smile as he said--"Only look at yourself in the glass and you'll forget
all your troubles."

She looked, and was angrier than ever.

Old Benny thought--"With my master here I think I'm pretty safe in
getting on the bed again." Accordingly he hopped with airy lightness on
to the silk spread, avoiding the spot he had soiled before. His legs
were strung with little beads of dried mud. He began to lick the place
on his stern where the heel of the slipper had hit him.

Alayne had barely turned from the survey of her face when she saw him.
It was one of those things that seem too bad to be true. Snatching up
the other slipper she flew at him, striking him again and again. Renny
caught her wrist.

"I won't have him beaten like that," he said sharply.

"Keep him out of my room, then! He's a perfect brute!"

"Come along, Ben! This is no place for us."

"You talk like a fool!" said Alayne.

He stopped in the doorway to look back at her. "I think," he said, "that
you are the worst-tempered woman I've ever known."

She watched him go and then sat down on a chair by the window, feeling
suddenly weak. Her own voice echoed in her mind, repeating--"You talk
like a fool!" She had actually said those words to Renny.... And what
was it he had said? That, too, was echoed in her mind.... She was not
filled with remorse for her words or cut to the heart by his. She just
sat motionless, stunned by the sudden rift between them. It was as
though a crack in the earth had suddenly separated them.... Could that
be bridged? Could she leap back, across the chasm of her words, and
stand once more close beside him? "The worst-tempered woman he had ever
known." And he had seen his grandmother in her passions! Had seen her
draw blood from the boys with her stick! He had felt the sting of her
tongue himself. Ah, but she was his grandmother! To be his wife was
different. His wife must be meek. Well--if not meek--she must still not
raise her hand against his dog. She leant out into the sunny morning
air. She heard the cooing of a wood-pigeon. She heard the rumble of a
farm-wagon. Saw the pointed leaves of the birches shaken out in gladness
to the sun. She remembered her first coming to Jalna as Eden's wife.
Life here had seemed so mysteriously different from the life to which
she was used. Now her maiden life seemed far away, mysterious, though it
was only five years. It was like a street she had once known well. Her
thoughts, her emotions, had been the buildings--airy, narrow white
buildings of a proud simplicity. That street had crumbled during the
first months of her life with Eden. How the contact with his changeful,
sensitive mind had absorbed her! A new street had been erected for her
spirit--a wide, richly coloured street, where the stars hung above the
roofs and fountains danced before the doors. Then she had thought she
would be an inspiration to Eden, be the means of his writing glorious
poems. And how quickly those bright edifices had dissolved! Eden's
faithlessness, her meeting with Renny--her living in the very house with
Renny--What was it that had crumbled the foundations? Eden and she had
never had such a scene as this. She had never felt such a blaze of anger
against Eden. Why was it? Was it because her love for Eden had been so
much less? That with her love was mingled a maternal feeling? Was it
because her love for Renny had in it so much of passion--her hope of
understanding him ever baffled? The new street rising out of her life
with him was threaded by intricate dark passages, separated by closed
doors which, when they were forced open, were swept by frosty air and
the sound of galloping hooves.

It was long before she put such fancies from her, rose, and tidied her
hair and washed her face. She called Bessie to come and sweep the rug,
and she tied up the silk bedspread in a parcel for the cleaners.

Renny slammed the side door behind him, Ben still at his heels. He was
glad to get out of the house, but no more glad than he had been a score
of times after a family row, when perhaps old Adeline had followed him
to the very door, raining recriminations on him. Certainly this tantrum
of Alayne's had been rather a shock. He had thought she had one of the
sweetest dispositions possible. And to have beat up old Benny like this,
and then to have called him a fool! He gave a kind of hysterical grin as
he thought of it. Whatever had got into the girl? Perhaps it was a
child? Women got into strange states at those times, he knew. Had
tantrums or wanted to eat raw carrots or common starch--anything to be
unnatural. Well, he hoped to the Lord it was a child. Meggie and
Pheasant had both had them in the year, and now he'd been married a year
and never a whisper of one. He'd like a boy resembling himself, except
for the red hair. He could do very well without that. If it were a girl
he should like it to look like Alayne, only, on the whole, it would be
better if it inherited Meggie's disposition. She'd been cranky from the
first that morning, he remembered. The way she'd pounced on poor old
Rags about that marmalade, and the look she'd given him when he went to
put down the window for her. Everything had annoyed her, even such a
trifle as Wake's waving of the bell-pull. And how peevish she had been
about Mooey coming to the table! She had tried to hide that, but he
could see through her. Of course, if she were going to have a baby, the
sight of another kid at the table might upset her stomach; there was no
knowing.

He was only a few strides from the door when he was intercepted by
Wragge. In the bright sunlight his coat looked very rusty and his scalp
showed through his greying hair. He looked up at Renny with a mournful
expression, twitching his nose and upper lip before he spoke as was his
way when his feelings were hurt.

"Well, what is it?" Renny demanded impatiently.

"I've come to give notice, sir. I think that me and me missus had
oughter go since we're not giving satisfaction to Mrs. W'iteoak, sir."

Renny stared at him, thunderstruck. "Mrs. Whiteoak hasn't said anything
to me about your not giving satisfaction. What is the trouble?"

"Well, sir, you saw 'ow it was about the marmalade at breakfast. I was
that unnerved that I nearly jumped out o' me shoes when the bell rang,
and I let drop the jar and smashed it. Not but w'at it was cracked
already and our second best one. Then, after breakfast, she came to the
kitchen and poured out the vitals of her wrath on Mrs. Wragge. There
wasn't a pot, nor a crock, nor a drawer she didn't look into, and
nothink was right. She even examined of the oven cloths and said they
was tea-cloths and had no business there. She was after Bessie for the
way she plucked the fowls. Bessie's young and she can tike criticism
calm, but Mrs. Wragge ain't herself this morning along o' her innards.
She 'ad a fry o' some pork leavin's last night before she went to bed,
and at three this morning we both thought 'er hour 'ad come. So she
don't feel able to swallow Mrs. W'iteoak's unreasonableness, sir, and my
nerves won't stand it neither, so I think we'd better be goin'."

"The hell, you will!" said Renny. "Get along back to your work. I never
heard of such nonsense. You have a very good place here and, if your
wife can't stand a little scolding, she ought to be ashamed of herself.
Give her a dose of salts and don't encourage her in her tempers." He
strode on, but Rags followed. "We appreciate the plice we 'ave 'ere. I
'ave it in me to be an old family retainer, but w'at's the use, if we
can never do nothink to please the mistress?"

Renny stopped. "Rags," he said, giving him a look of almost tender
familiarity, "you and I were through a good deal together. I don't want
to part with you and I don't believe you want to leave me. You know
quite well how to pacify your wife. Probably what happened this morning
may never happen again. I've overlooked things in you and you must show
your good sense by putting up with a little criticism. Remind your wife
of the dozens of times I've praised her sauces and her tarts."

Rags's grey little face was quite broken up by emotion. "Do you mind the
time, sir, when we'd moved our position at The Front and we arrived in a
God-forsaken plice just at dark and, inside of a hour, I'd cooked you up
a four-course dinner out o' some bits o' things I'd brung along in
tins?"

"Do I! I'll never forget that dinner!"

They stood together talking of old times. Rags returned to the kitchen
and told his wife that the master was all on their side and advised them
not to take the missus too serious.

"I could have borne with 'er fault-finding," declared Mrs. Wragge, "if
she 'adn't started in about the glazing on the platters. W'y, that was
all cracked afore she ever set 'er foot inside this 'ouse."

"My! she has a funny way of talking," observed Bessie. "When she began
about the fowl's _plumage_ I nearly burst out laughing."

"Silly!" said Mrs. Wragge. "That's the American for _fevvers_."

Renny and the sheep-dog went on toward the stable, but now he was
genuinely angry at Alayne. It was all very well to be disagreeable to
him--Good God, she had told him that he talked like a fool--She had beaten
poor old Ben for almost nothing, and now he found that she had all but
lost him the Wragges. He remembered how she had drawn away from him when
he had wanted to kiss her after breakfast. He sighed in puzzlement.

Usually he visited each of his horses in turn on his arrival at the
stables in the morning, but this morning he felt out of sorts. He went
straight to his little office and sat down before his yellow oak desk.
Things were not going well with him this year. He had lost money at the
races. A horse he had backed rather heavily, feeling certain of its
quality, for it had been bred in his own stables and later sold to a
friend (he had watched its training from month to month), had fallen,
thrown the jockey, and galloped riderless to the finish. A horse of his
own, trained by himself as a steeplechaser, ridden by one of his own
men, had given a far from brilliant performance. He had hoped to sell it
for a large sum. That hope was gone, unless the horse retrieved its
reputation in another race. He had sold two of his best horses to a
prosperous broker, but for some reason the payment for them was not
forthcoming. Renny did not want to sue him for the money but he needed
it badly. Added to these misfortunes, a gale in the autumn before had
taken the roof from one of the stables and blown down a portion of the
wall. Luckily the horses had not been injured, but the carpenter and the
mason were becoming anxious for their money. They must be paid somehow.

In the early spring he had had a letter from Eden asking for a loan. He
was in France, where he had been working all winter, and he wanted to go
to England. His health was none too good. He badly needed a change--they
had had a dreadful winter of cold and rain on the Riviera. Minny was
with him, of course. He couldn't imagine what he should have done
without her. Might he have a thousand dollars? And Minny had joined him
in sending love.

When Renny had come to that part of the letter he had cocked an eyebrow.
There was something about the whole tone of the letter that he had not
quite liked. It was an almost impudent tone, as though Eden had
said--"Well, I cleared out with Minny and made things easy for you and
Alayne. A thousand dollars isn't much to ask!" He had called it a loan,
but Renny knew that he would never pay it back, and Eden knew that he
knew. The money had been sent. One could scarcely refuse it to a brother
who had almost died of lung trouble. Renny had never mentioned the
affair to the family.

He picked up a paper that lay on his desk. It was an account from Piers
of the hay, straw, oats, and chop with which he had supplied Renny
during the winter. He had been expecting this account for some time, and
he had known that Piers put off the rendering of it because of the
shortage of money. The farm lands of Jalna were rented to Piers at a
moderate rental. Renny bought from him the supplies he needed for the
stables at the regular market price. Piers also supplied the house with
fruit and vegetables at a low price, as they did not need to be packed
or shipped. This arrangement had worked out excellently, each brother
giving the other a little time when necessary. Their love of Jalna,
their love of horses, and their pride in their family was a strong bond
between them. In the last two years Piers had been ready with his rent
each quarter, on the day of its falling due. Renny, on the contrary, had
been obliged to ask Piers for more time on several occasions. He felt
chagrin at this. He wondered if he might put off the mason, the
carpenter, or some other creditor, and pay Piers at once. He ran his eye
over the items of the account. Certainly the nags had got away with a
lot of feed. But they were worth it! He opened a drawer and took out the
accounts that had come in at the beginning of the month. He had not paid
the vet anything since the New Year. His was mounting to a large figure.
He must be paid something. Urgent notes were attached to the accounts of
the mason and the carpenter, begging for an immediate settlement. Then
there was the notice from the bank telling of a note that had fallen
due. He had not been able to resist that lovely mare in Montreal, though
he really had not needed her.... He lighted a cigarette and stared
rather blankly at the papers on the desk. A jubilant neigh came from the
stallion's loose-box.

He looked out of the window as a car drew up outside, and saw Piers
alight from it. Since he had got the new car Piers seemed always to have
some business that took him on the road. Renny went out and joined him.

"I'm sorry," he said rather stiffly, "but you'll have to wait a bit for
the money for that fodder account. Money is awfully tight with me just
now, and the mason and carpenter are pressing. Other things too."

Piers's face fell. He had done the decent thing, he thought, in delaying
the rendering of his account. "Could you pay me half?" he asked. "I need
the money."

"No," returned Renny irritably; "you'll have to wait till next month."

They had walked past the barn to the new piggery for which Finch was
paying. The work was proceeding well. It was an up-to-date,
solid-looking building. Piers had it in his mind to breed pigs on a
large scale.

"That thing is going to cost a lot of money," observed Renny, eyeing it
disapprovingly.

"More than young Finch expected, I'm afraid," answered Piers, grinning.

"He shingled the barn for you, too, didn't he?"

"Yes. It needed it badly."

"It appears to me that, if you go on as you are doing, you'll get more
out of Gran's money than anyone else."

Piers's lips hardened. If his elder were going to throw Finch's present
to him in his face, he could be disagreeable too. He said:

"When all is said and done, Finch is really doing it for you. The land
is yours. The buildings are yours. I only have the use of them. You
don't care what condition the farm-buildings are in so long as the
stables are kept up. These improvements Finch has made are for Jalna--not
for me."

"I should never have asked for them."

"Of course not. As I said before, you don't care a damn about the
farm-buildings."

"Well, you'll have the use of them all your life. You'll likely outlive
me. They don't mean anything to me."

"They mean that you get your rent the day it is due."

"I suppose that's a shot for me because I have to put you off." Renny's
red face became redder.

Piers's eyes were prominent as they always were when his temper rose.
But he spoke quietly. "No--but I don't like your tone about these
buildings. You have known what is being done from the first and you've
never said a word against the improvements until now."

"It was none of my business. I don't care what Finch does with his
money."

Piers answered hotly--"But you resent his helping me."

"No, I don't. But I don't like your saying that he isn't doing it for
you but for me."

"I didn't say that! I said he was doing it for Jalna."

"I'll look after Jalna--without anyone's help."

"Good lord! Then you would sooner he had squandered his money? He was
bound to do that if he had been let alone."

"I don't want any of it spent on me; that's all. You will be saying next
that he bought the car for me."

"Well, I acknowledge that was a present to me."

"It would have been better," said Renny, "if he had helped Eden a bit.
He's not strong. I had to send him a thousand dollars in March." He had
not intended to tell of the loan, least of all to Piers, but he felt
himself forced to tell by what he considered Piers's surly attitude
toward his delay in the payment of the account.

They were standing beside a small grassy enclosure where three sows,
soon to farrow, were exposing their matronly forms to the sun. One of
them trotted up briskly to the brothers and raised her small quizzical
eyes to Piers's face. She recognised him and, like all animals, liked
the looks of him. He carried a smooth, wandlike stick that he had picked
up where the carpenters were at work. Wood had a fascination for him,
whether in its natural state or polished. He would stop where a pine was
being felled, pick up a smooth rosy chip, pass his hand caressingly over
it, and hold it to his nose, drawing in its sweetness as though it were
a flower. In the same way Renny would sniff when he entered the
saddle-room and smelled the polished leather. It was Piers who most
appreciated the Chippendale furniture brought out from England by their
grandfather. Renny was proud of it, attached to it because it was a part
of Jalna. He would have starved sooner than sell a piece of it.

Piers scratched the sow's back with his stick, rubbing it along the pink
corrugated skin of her back on which white bristles stood up like a
bleached forest. Her moist muzzle twitched. She put one huge ear forward
as though listening to the rasping of the stick on her back. Her white
eyelashes blinked rapidly, half-concealing her roguish eyes. The men
stood silent as the spell was worked on her, then as, with a grunt, she
rolled on to her side, Renny gave a short laugh, half-amusement,
half-embarrassment. He wondered why Piers had made no reply to his
confession of the loan to Eden. He repeated then:

"I had to send him a thousand. I couldn't refuse him."

Piers returned, still scratching the sow:

"Well, all I can say is that you were a fool to do it."

It was the second time within an hour that he had been called a fool,
but he felt more hurt than angered.

"What would you expect me to do?" he asked. "Let him starve?"

"That's what he deserves." Piers turned away, as though he could not
trust himself to speak on the subject of Eden.

The sow was unconscious that he had desisted from his attentions. She
lay with closed eyes; her great side, under which dozed eleven little
pigs, gently heaving, her small hooved feet sticking straight out.

Renny stood, with arms folded on the gate, looking down on her, old Ben
sat close beside, pressing his hairy body against his legs. Renny
thought--"Why, even when I tried to kiss Alayne at breakfast, she pulled
herself away. Whatever is the matter with the girl?"

Piers went to the orchard to speak to the men who were giving the trees
a final spray. He watched the misty fall of spray, glancing green in the
sunlight, shroud the trees in its protective vapour. He examined the
blossom from which the petals had now fallen, and reckoned that the crop
would be a good one. He saw Pheasant walking among the strawberry-beds
with Mooey by the hand, and he could not resist a word of gossip with
her, even though it was a busy time for him.

"Hello, Piers! We're hunting for ripe strawberries. Mooey has found
three. Isn't he clever? There's a tremendous crop."

"You never can be sure of strawberries," he said, looking at the plants
critically. Certainly the greenish-white berries were plentiful and
looked large for early June. Here and there a pink one twinkled against
the moist leaves, and Pheasant held to his mouth one that was actually
ripe. His eyes smiled at her as he ate it.

"What do you suppose," she said breathlessly. "Renny and Alayne have
been having a quarrel! They've been married a year now, and it's the
first time I've heard them having words. And, Mooey, tell Daddy what
Auntie Alayne did to you."

Mooey advanced between rows of strawberry plants, his cheeks
berry-stained. He said gravely:

"Auntie Alayne f'owed me out of her room."

"What?" His father looked at him sternly.

"She f'owed me," he repeated, "out of the door. And I ran to Mummy, and
I wasn't f'ightened."

"He is so brave," cried Pheasant. "He pretends he wasn't frightened, but
he simply howled. I was in my room and I was positively terrified. He
came running to me with his mouth wide open and his eyes tight shut and
talcum powder all over his head. I was so annoyed."

Piers stared at her dazed. "But what had happened? Had she put the
talcum on him?"

"No, silly! He had got into her room and sprinkled it on himself. She
found him there and put him into the passage. Ben was in there too, and
you should have heard her shout at him. One moment Mooey says that she
hit him, and the next that she just pushed him. I think the poor darling
was so terrified that he wasn't conscious of what was going on."

Piers looked down at his small son. "Did she hit you?" he asked,
speaking very distinctly.

Mooey was filled with a sudden self-pity. His eyes swam with tears. "She
f'owed a slipper at me," he said.

"I'll speak to her about this," said Piers. "I won't stand it."

"Oh, I don't believe I'd say anything," advised Pheasant. "It will only
make a bad feeling. The more I see of life, the more I find that you
must make allowances for people's complexes and frustrations and all
that sort of thing. I think if all three of us are just a little cool to
her for the next day or two it will make just as much impression as
having words."

"Did you say that she and Renny were quarrelling?"

"Yes. I couldn't hear what it was about; but their voices were raised,
and she followed him to the door and simply hissed after him--'You talk
like a fool!' Isn't it terrible? Well--she's a brave woman. There's
nothing on earth would tempt me to call Renny Whiteoak a fool."

"What did he say?"

"He said she was the worst-tempered woman he'd ever known."

Piers grinned. Then his face darkened and he said sombrely:

"I never had any hope of that marriage turning out well. I wish to God
he'd never cared for her!"

Pheasant cried--"Oh, I like Alayne! She's really quite a sweet thing. But
I won't have her doing things to my baby." And she snatched up Mooey and
kissed his berry-stained mouth.

"Well, I have my bit of news, too," said Piers. "I put my account for
feed on his lordship's desk this morning. He tells me he can't pay it
for another month. Where he is going to get money in the next month I
can't imagine."

"What a shame!"

Piers lifted a soft lock from Mooey's forehead. "There's a mark there! A
bruise. Do you think she did that!"

"No. That's where he fell down the steps yesterday." She kissed the
bruise.

"Anyway," said Mooey, "she f'owed her slipper at me."

Pheasant shook her head at him. "Don't let your mind dwell on unpleasant
things, my child! I must teach you that poem of Longfellow's about the
world being full of such a number of things, I'm sure we should all be
as happy as kings. Smile, Mooey! Smile itty bitty at oo mummy!"

Mooey smiled waveringly, his eyes full of tears.

"Don't talk baby talk to him," said Piers.

"Oh, Piers, you don't realise what a delightful thing it is for a young
mother to talk baby talk to her tiny boy in a strawberry-bed on a June
day. Only smell the air! Isn't it sweet? Excepting, of course, when one
smells the Bordeaux mixture. And even it looks lovely over the tree
tops. And those big white clouds flying. And that oriole singing. And
the sound of the carpenter's hammer! And Mooey's hair all fluffy on his
temples!"

Piers looked at her with a little twisted smile. How funny she was ...
how long her lashes were.... How he loved her!

He said--"Well, Renny will never get anyone else to take the interest in
the farm-lands that I do. Ever since I've taken them over I've improved
them. Even when I managed them on a salary, when we were first married,
I was improving them. Of course, this way is better for me, even though
I pay a good rent."

"We get our living as well, don't we? Three of us, and Bessie does quite
a lot for Mooey."

"Why, yes, we do." The thought that their living cost them nothing came
as a mild surprise to Piers. He had always taken that for granted. Two
or three extra people meant nothing to Jalna.

"Renny wouldn't have it otherwise," he said. "He gets nervy when the
house isn't full of people. Look what he was like at the
breakfast-table. Wanting this fellow brought down. Be sure you fetch him
to dinner, Pheasant. We'll see what Mrs. Alayne has to say to that!"




                                 XVIII


                              THE FOX-FARM

Renny drew in the restive young horse he had been exercising and looked
over the white gate into the fox-farm. He was undecided whether or no he
should go in. Before the death of Antoine Lebraux he had been in the
house every day. The sick man had become more and more dependent on him.
When Lebraux's periods of drinking had rendered him violent it was to
Renny that his wife had come for assistance. After his death Renny had
gone to the house constantly, trying to create order out of the disorder
of affairs they discovered. He had helped Mrs. Lebraux through the
cubbing season. He had got Piers to buy some pure-bred Leghorns for her
with which to stock the poultry house. He had sent old Noah Binns to dig
the garden for her. He himself had gone about the house putting the
rollers of window-shades into order, tacking up sagging wallpaper,
tinkering at the kitchen tap that dripped. He had interviewed the
retired farmer who held a mortgage on the property and persuaded him to
give her more time. It was the same man from whom Finch had taken over
the mortgage on Vaughanlands.

In return for these kindnesses Clara Lebraux had insisted that he make
use of her stable, for his own were overcrowded. It was all she could
do. The horses were company, she said. She gave them their evening meal
and bedded them down herself. Between her and Renny had arisen the
peculiar intimacy that is created between a man and a woman when he has
seen her through distressing times, seen her looking her worst, red-eyed
and unattractive or engaged in rough work, has done things about the
house for her that a husband or a male relative ordinarily would do.
They were as natural in the company of each other as two labourers on
Piers's farm.

Things were going a little better with her now. She did not need his
help so often, and a casual word from Piers had made Renny feel that
there was some gossip in the neighbourhood about his frequent visits
there. It was characteristic of him that he should dislike being
gossiped about. He was overbearing. He could taciturnly ignore
criticism. But he did not like to think that the Miss Laceys, Miss Pink,
and Mrs. Fennel were giving sly hints over their tea-cups. He did not
like to think that the grooms and stablemen nudged each other when he
turned his horse in the direction of the fox-farm. It was not fair to
Mrs. Lebraux that he and she should create even harmless gossip. Before
his marriage he had conducted his casual affairs of the heart with
capable secrecy. Since his marriage he had given no thought to any woman
save Alayne. His former amorous proclivities had been consumed in the
generous fire of his love for her.

But in Clara Lebraux he had found what he had never known
before--friendship with a woman. He could spend hours in her company
without remembering her sex except as an intangible something that
enriched their intimacy. He never forgot Alayne's sex. It hung about her
as a cloak, clouding his vision of her. It lay about her feet as a magic
circle beyond which he had neither the power nor the will to press. His
nature was intermittently sensual. At times when Alayne was talking,
giving her opinion on some matter with the somewhat elaborate detail
natural to her, he would watch her with a look that was both admiring
and baffled, and that had in it, as well, something hostile. He was
aware that his impregnable masculinity was often irritating to her.

As he hesitated before the gate the front door of the house opened and
Pauline Lebraux appeared. She ran toward him between the dingy white
stones on either side of the path, her legs in their black stockings
looking excessively long and agile. She threw back her head as she
reached the gate to free her face from the uncared-for dark hair that
hung like a mane about it.

"Aren't you coming in? Oh, please do!" she entreated, gaspingly, as
though in excitement.

He noticed her low white forehead with its pencilled brows, the
foreign-looking eyes, the wide, rather thin-lipped mouth with an upward
curve at the corners. He said:

"No. I don't think I shall go in. Just tell me how you are getting
along."

"The very same. There's nothing new. But you haven't come for three
whole days! We're so lonely. We think you are annoyed with us."

"Open the gate, then."

She threw it open with a grand gesture.

"Noah Binns is here," she said, as though she had searched in her mind
for news.

"Is he? I'll stir him up a bit then before I go into the house." He
alighted and tied his horse to the fence, and it began eagerly to crop
the uncut grass of the yard, taking swift mouthfuls with impatient jerks
of the head.

Pauline Lebraux passed her long thin hands over its smooth sides. She
ran to where the grass was mixed with moist Dutch clover beneath an
apple-tree, and, grasping all she could, carried it to him. She watched
him solicitously as he munched, repeating to him endearments in French.
Renny went to where he saw old Binns digging. "Hello, Noah," he said,
"how much have you got done to-day?"

The old man leant on his spade and turned his dim eyes on Renny. Like
Pauline's, his mind sought for news, but, instead of swooping on it and
tossing it to the newcomer as a morsel to excite his appetite, he let
his eyes travel the length of the garden, taking in every lump of earth,
every weed and every vegetable growth, then, painfully wrenching his
morsel of information from the soil, he threw it half-indignantly as a
sop to this tyrannical being whose presence was an urge to activity. As
his eyes reached Renny's face he said:

"Carrots be up!"

"So I see. And pretty thick too. Not so bad--but you've left a lot of
thistles along the far end!"

Noah slowly turned his head so that at last his gaze was focussed on the
weeds.

"Thistles be always up," he observed.

Mrs. Lebraux appeared at the side door of the house. She did not speak,
but stood there waiting. Renny at once went over to her and they entered
the house. They went into the sitting-room that had become so familiar
to him. He was used to high ceilings at Jalna. Here he always felt
inclined to stoop for fear he should strike his head in the doorways. He
looked about the room, which had changed somewhat since he was last
there, and said:

"It looks nice here. What have you been doing?"

She gave a shrug. "Cleaning house. Making things look different so it
will be less depressing. Pauline made that lamp-shade. Do you like it?"

He looked at it seriously. It was a parchment shade, somewhat crudely
painted with red flowers.

"It looks nice when it's lighted," she said. "It gave her something to
do."

"What's this?" he asked, touching a gold-embroidered table-runner.

"She cut that out of an old evening-gown of mine. I must let her do
things." She pushed a box of cigarettes towards him and, striking a
match on the under side of the table, lighted one for herself. She
stretched out her feet, encased in worn brogues, leant back and clasped
her hands behind her head. Her hair, streaked in gold and drab, looked
as though it had just been hastily brushed. She stared straight before
her out of her round light-lashed eyes and smoked in silence.

He looked at her, only half seeing her. But he thought she had improved
the looks of the sitting-room. The brightness of the table-runner and
the lamp-shade pleased him.

"Did you have a woman in to clean for you?" he asked.

"I did it myself. Skinned all my knuckles."

He frowned. "It doesn't cost much to get a woman for a few days."

"It costs enough to buy us new shoes, and we both need them."

He looked at her shoes, then noticed the hand she extended as she
knocked the ash from her cigarette. She had not spoken with
exaggeration, either of shoes or knuckles. She was made of good stuff,
he thought.

"I'll tell Binns to clean out the poultry-house for you."

"I cleaned it out myself before breakfast."

"Hmph! How's the poultry doing?"

"Awfully well, but, of course, the price of eggs is low now. But we eat
them twice a day. I give the child a raw one in a glass of milk; she's
growing so fast."

"It's too bad the incubator went wrong that first time. I think it's
rather a pity you set it up again. From what I hear these late chickens
aren't up to much."

"I used Plymouth Rock eggs this time. They'll develop quickly into
broilers. The lamp acted rather funny last night. I thought the first
experience was going to be repeated, so I stopped up half the night with
it."

"Look here," he exclaimed, "you're going to overdo it, you know."

"Oh no, I'm not! I'm feeling a thousand times better than I did in the
winter. I'm worried about the child, though."

He looked at her enquiringly.

"Her education. She simply isn't getting any. Her father used to teach
her, but I can't. In the first place, it isn't in me to teach. In the
second, my own education was sketchy. Pauline knows more about
literature and more Latin that I do. And, naturally--French."

"You never learned to speak French from Lebraux?"

"No. What was the use? He could speak English. He used to laugh when I'd
try my school-girl French on him. But he always spoke French to Pauline.
Now she'll be forgetting it, I'm afraid."

An idea came to Renny. "Why, see here, my wife reads French very nicely!
She and Pauline could read some French books together and it would do
them both good. Alayne has really no way of passing the time. I'll ask
her."

Mrs. Lebraux's eyes looked blank, but she said:

"Thanks very much. I'm afraid it would be too much trouble for her."

"Not at all. She likes children. She has always been very keen about my
young Wake."

"Well, I should be very grateful.... Pauline wanted to go to Mr. Fennel
with your small brother, but she's a Catholic, you know, and I'm sure
Tony would have objected. What do you think? Do you think it is fair to
her to hinder her education because of a prejudice?"

"I think her father's wishes should be respected. But among us we'll
give her a start. Then, when things are a bit better with you, you can
send her to a convent."

"She's going on for sixteen."

Renny knit his brows. "Uncle Ernest will be glad to help. I'm sure of
that. He's an Oxford man. Then, my wife for the French ... and poetry.
She knows all about modern poetry. If you want Pauline to study that. I
think myself she'd be better without it.... I'm afraid I can't do much
myself. It's amazing how I've forgotten everything I learned at
'Varsity. Just in one ear and out the other. Money wasted. It was all
athletics with me. An amusing thing about my education is this--the
little I learned from the governess who taught my sister and me when we
were kids is all that sticks with me. I know the dates of all the
English kings and of the principal battles. You simply couldn't catch me
up on them. I might teach them to Pauline. It would be something to go
on. Not one of my young brothers has hung on to them as I have. I've
asked them suddenly--perhaps in the middle of their pudding--what are the
names and dates of the battles in the Wars of the Roses? Do you think
they could get them right? No. Or perhaps--what were the dates of King
Stephen? They were sure to be wrong. I couldn't possibly forget. Eleven
thirty-five to eleven fifty-four. Wakefield is pretty good at the kings.
I've said them to him to send him to sleep when his nerves were rocky.
It's the only use my education has ever been to me."

Clara Lebraux listened to all this with serious interest. She puffed at
her cigarette, scowling intently at him through the smoke. Alayne had
heard him say the same words with detached amusement, wondering at his
ingenuousness.

"The governess was afterwards your stepmother, wasn't she?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Were you fond of her?"

"Not particularly. I didn't think much about her. She was often ill, I
remember. She'd large blue eyes that she kept half-shut, and yellow
hair. Eden's rather like her.... She taught me poetry too. Can you
believe that? Tennyson. And I have forgotten every line of it. If Eden
had inherited a love of dates from her instead of poetry, it would have
been better."

"I suppose. I can't read poetry at all. It bores me."

They smoked in silence, he gazing thoughtfully at her brogues, thinking
how worn they looked; she, at his boots, admiring the soft glow attained
by the leather after many polishings.

Pauline came in, her small face flushed pink by the sun, her black frock
worn at the elbows and too short for her. Renny said:

"Now, let's see what you know about history! What are the dates of Henry
the Seventh?"

She stood before him startled. She shook her head. "I don't know."

He grinned triumphantly at her mother. "I told you! She doesn't know."
Then to Pauline: "Fourteen-eighty-five. Fifteen-nine. Now, Pauline, tell
me the names of the kings from William the Conqueror." His fierce eyes
ruthlessly compelled hers, but he prompted--'First William the Norman,
then William his son, Henry, Stephen, and Henry....' By George, I'm
telling them all to you!" He drew her to his side on the sofa. "Never
mind! I'll teach you them. We're going to educate you among us. How will
you like that?"

She thought he was magnificent. She laid her head confidingly against
his shoulder. "I shall like to have _you_ teach me. Will you come here
to do it, or must I go to Jalna?"

"I think I'll come here. But my wife will read French with you at
Jalna." By this time he felt sure that Alayne would acquiesce in the
arrangement. How could she refuse?

"I know French already," said Pauline rather haughtily.

"Don't be ungracious," said her mother. "It will be quite a different
thing to read French literature."

"Papa read French books to me." Somehow she did not think she would like
to read French with Mrs. Whiteoak. There had been something in her cool
gaze when they had met that had given the child a sense of being
repulsed. However, she had been taught to be polite, so she added--"But,
I suppose, these would be grown-up books. Quite different. Thank you,
Renny."

Both mother and daughter called him Renny, as Tony Lebraux had done, but
he had pronounced it Ren.

Between Pauline and her father there had been a love, and an
understanding almost extravagant, such as occasionally exists between
father and daughter. She was only a small child when she realised that
her parents were opposed in character. Long before she understood what
their disagreements were about, she was on the side of her father, her
heart aching in sympathy when she had thought his sensibilities were
hurt. The fact that they spoke together a language her mother did not
understand, that they were separated from her by religion, gave their
love a strange and precious quality. It had been ecstasy to her to lie
in his arms, her cheek against the soft cloth of his coat, gazing up
into his olive-skinned face, admiring the full curve of his lips beneath
his little black moustache, the hairs of which were strong and
glittering, and were twisted at the ends into two little spikes, so
sharp that they pricked you if a kiss were misdirected. Then, as she lay
in his arms, they would whisper endearments and plan what they meant to
do in the future. She would never leave him; never, never leave him. She
would not marry because he would have all her love. She felt that his
love for her made her inviolate against change or disaster. Even when he
became ill, when he began to drink too much French brandy, his love
still enfolded her. Nothing terrible could really happen to them. Yet
she knelt before the crucifix in her room and prayed for him in
ever-increasing foreboding of the spirit.... She was spared nothing of
the despair, the agony of his last days. In the small house nothing
could be hidden.

It was then that she had learned to look on Renny Whiteoak as a tower of
strength. The sight of his tall figure, his lean red face in the room
with her filled her with a wild timorous joy in these days of early
summer. She lifted up her heart to be filled with the strength of his
presence.

She liked to listen to her mother and him talking together as they
smoked endless cigarettes. It was strange how, even when they talked of
worrying things, there was no sense of fear or irritation in the room.
Sometimes they laughed, laughter sounding strange in that house. Pauline
liked to hear it--Renny's abrupt loud bark of a laugh, her mother's deep,
sputtering chuckle. After he had gone the child would throw her arms
about her mother and exclaim--"Oh, Mummy, _isn't_ he nice?" Now that Tony
Lebraux was gone, Clara and Pauline were drawing closer together.

When Renny looked at his watch, Pauline exclaimed:

"Oh, do stay for lunch. He must, mustn't he, mummy?"

"Yes, do stay! You haven't had a meal with us ... since January.... But
I'm afraid there isn't much to tempt you."

"I'll make an omelet! I can make a splendid one. And there's ham!" She
was willing, eager to use their supplies for the day to spread a feast
for him.

She tied a white-and-blue checked apron under her chin and turned back
the cuffs of her black frock. He stood beside the stove watching her as
she frowned anxiously at the mixture in the frying-pan. What if the
omelet would not rise? she thought. What if it rose and fell again?

No need to worry. It rose in a yellow foam; at its height it attained
just enough firmness to support it; it turned a golden brown. She laid
it on the heated platter and Renny went to the garden to get parsley to
garnish it. Old Noah Binns was seated under a tree, eating his lunch
from a package wrapped in newspaper. He tilted his head to drink cold
tea from a bottle, pointing his white beard heavenward and exposing the
activities of his Adam's apple. A dog fox had climbed to the roof of its
kennel the better to observe him. It sat there fiercely erect, aware in
every nerve of his slightest movement. The bright eyes of the vixen
peered from the opening of the kennel. Noah Binns grew restive under
their gaze. He shied a bit of pork rind he could not swallow against the
wire netting of the run.

"Go to earth, dang you!" he shouted.

Renny turned, with the bunch of parsley in his hand.

"Never do that again," he said sternly. "Don't you know that Mrs.
Lebraux makes pets of her foxes? Don't let me ever catch you frightening
them."

Noah twisted his beard in his fingers, looking like a strange old man in
a play.

"Fox himself!" he muttered at Renny's back. "Pet fox? Whose pet fox?
_Hers!_ Dang 'em both!"

Renny had brought enough parsley to garnish a roast young pig, but
Pauline would use it all. So the omelet came to the table resting on a
bank of green, resembling a verdant mountain capped with the gold of
sunset.

Pauline felt a quivering sense of pride in her achievement, elation at
the presence of a guest--and that guest Renny. She smiled, lifting her
lip and showing her small white teeth. They talked of foxes, and Pauline
told of the habits, the knowing tricks, of each. The man who worked for
them had made her a seat in one of the shady trees about which the
enclosures were built, and there she sat by the hour watching the foxes.
They were become so used to her that even the shyest no longer scurried
into his den when she climbed the steps to her seat. The boldest knew
her. They knew (she said) the names she had given them. The cubs loved
her. They were wonderful foxes, no two of a like disposition.

"She knows more about them now than I do," said Clara Lebraux.

"Experience shows," Renny said, "that the more foxes are handled as tame
animals the better they thrive. Better cubs. Better fur."

"If only," cried Pauline, "I might keep them all! But I have my pets and
they must always be kept for breeding."

"You must not be sentimental," he said. "I would sell any horse I own."

"But not to be _skinned_."

"Well, perhaps not. I agree that that's hard."

While Mrs. Lebraux cleared away the luncheon things, Pauline led Renny
upstairs to the vacant room next her mother's where the incubator was
kept.

"What do you think I do?" she exclaimed, squeezing his arm when she had
him alone. "I steal eggs from the poultry-house and feed them to my baby
foxes!"

"But that is wrong," he said, looking down at her as severely as he
could. "Those eggs are worth something."

"Bah, a few eggs!" she cried, with the exact expression of her father.

"But look at these! See what they are doing!" He pointed through the
narrow glass door of the incubator.

An egg next the glass was rocking like a little boat on the sea. Another
showed a dark triangular chip. Through a third was thrust a gaping
yellow beak. Far in the twilight, at the back, staggered a pitiable
object, wet, goggle-eyed, half-fainting, hemmed in by the rows of
uncompanionable spheres in which slept, cheeped, chipped, or lay dying,
his contemporaries. His woebegone expression showed his consciousness of
being hatched too soon.

Renny had struck a match and held it near the glass. They peered in,
rough black head and red head touching.

"Isn't he a sight?" breathed Pauline in ecstasy.

"Poor devil," said Renny. "That's what it is to be born the eldest of a
family."




                                  XIX


                              THE OUTSIDER

Since the departure of Nicholas and Ernest, Rags had been laying tea in
the dining-room instead of carrying it to the drawing-room as was the
custom in old Adeline's day. Her sons would have resented the change,
but the younger members of the family enjoyed having their bread and
butter, cakes, and jam spread out before them, and sitting around the
table to it.

Renny had not returned until tea-time. He entered the house in rather a
propitiatory mood towards Alayne. In spite of her hard words to him he
felt that, as a sensitive and fastidious woman, she had probably had a
good deal to annoy her that morning. He knew that the servants were not
what they should be, but he felt quite sure that nothing she could do
would change them. He knew that he and old Benny the sheep-dog were not
all they should be, from her point of view, but he hoped that in time
she would become accustomed to them and their ways. He rather admired
the spirit she had shown that morning. He had never seen her in a temper
before. To think that she would hit the old dog with her slipper! And
tell her husband that he talked like a fool! He grinned when he thought
of it. He was elated by the idea of getting Alayne to read French with
little Pauline. He felt that, if she would agree, it would be the means
of drawing her and Clara Lebraux together. It would be good for each of
them to find a friend in the other. It would be especially good for
Alayne to have an interest outside Jalna, for he realised that often
time hung heavy on her hands.

He went up to his room and changed into another suit, after having
scrubbed his face and hands till they were red and flattened his hair
with a damp brush. This was done in order that she should to-day have no
complaint that he brought the smell of the stable with him.

She was pouring tea when he went into the dining-room, sitting at her
end of the table with a book she had been reading open beside her. Piers
and Pheasant were talking with rather ostentatious good spirits to each
other. Mooey had been brought to the table and was perched on the large
volume of British Poets on which Wakefield had been used to sit. As he
ate his bread and butter his eyes were fixed on Alayne with a wondering
look as though he expected her at any moment to attack him. As his
parents were present to protect him he would not have been altogether
sorry to see her make some such demonstration. He smiled up at
Wakefield, who sat beside him, and whispered--"I'm not f'ightened of
Auntie Alayne."

"Of course you're not," said Wakefield, patting his head. "So long as
you do just what Uncle Wakefield tells you, nothing can harm you." Renny
grinned at the children, then went and sat near Alayne. She had given
Wragge a few roses for the table, which he, in a conciliatory mood, had
placed in a vase beside her plate. As he entered the room with a fresh
pot of tea for Renny he cast his eyes on the roses and then on Alayne,
emphasising the fact that they were his gift to her.

She looked up from her book and smiled at Renny--a somewhat forced
smile--then lowered her eyes again, abstractedly eating a small iced cake
while she read. With her book, her roses, and her cake she was separated
from the other members of the family in a kind of frosty seclusion. At
tea Renny liked a pot to himself, which Wragge always ostentatiously
placed beside him. He was very hungry after the lunch at the fox-farm,
accustomed as he was to a solid one o'clock dinner. He ate in silence
for a time, feeling himself in rather an uncomfortable position midway
between the opposing factions at the table. Vaguely he wondered what he
could do to please Alayne, to show her that the words she had cast at
him that morning had not rankled. He discovered the roses and drew the
vase across the table to him. Glancing at Alayne from under his thick
dark lashes to make sure that she was observing him, he sniffed each
rose in turn, thrusting his handsome bony nose into the heart of each
like some enormous predatory bee.

"These smell awfully nice," he said. "Out of our own garden?"

"Yes," she returned, closing her book on her finger. "You had better put
them in the centre of the table. I don't know why Wragge should have set
them by my place."

Piers and Pheasant had ceased their animated talk long enough to listen
to this exchange of words. Now they began to talk again, their eyes
dancing. They paid no attention to their child, who sat gazing in
astonishment at the large piece of cake Wakefield had put on his plate
while he still held another piece in his hand.

Alayne returned to her book and Renny set the vase of roses carefully in
the middle of the table. His first effort had failed. Wragge had come
into the room and was gazing at him with an adoring expression. He came
and bent over him, whispering:

"Is your tea all right, sir?"

"Oh, yes, it's quite all right." He looked up into Rag's pale eyes as
though for inspiration.

It might be well, he thought, to show Alayne that he was definitely on
her side regarding Mooey's misbehaviour of the morning. He fixed his
nephew with his gaze and said:

"What's this I hear about you? Going into Auntie Alayne's room and
flinging her powder about. Let me catch you in there again and I'll warm
you so that you'll not want to sit down for a week."

Mooey's eyes overflowed with tears. He laid down the cake he had been
eating beside the piece he had not yet begun, and clutched his head in
both his sticky hands. He made his mouth square and emitted a wail.
Piers shook his finger at him.

"None of that!" he said. "Sit up and take your medicine. Take that cake
off his plate, Wake."

Mooey gulped back his woe and wiped his eyes on a corner of his bib.

"It's pretty hard," exclaimed Pheasant, "always to restrain a small
child so that he'll never get into the least little bit of mischief!"

"You must manage it somehow," said Renny.

"If only Alayne would keep her door shut! Mooey can't manage door-knobs
yet."

"Alayne can't keep her door shut. She doesn't want it shut. She likes
the air to stir through it."

"But she's always complaining of draughts!"

"A draught in the sitting-room and a draught in her bedroom are two very
different things."

Alayne sat listening with the feelings of one engaged in a lawsuit who
sits silent, made to writhe alternately by the attorneys for and
against. She had come to tea scarcely knowing how to face Renny. She had
brought her book to the table as a protection. Now Renny's attitude of
aggressiveness on her behalf gave her an agreeable sense of power. For
the first time she felt the possibility of influence over him. If only
she had him to herself! But how little likelihood there was of that
since even now he was fretting at the smallness of the family! While he
was in his present mood it might be timely to introduce the subject of a
nurse for Mooey.

She said, looking down the table at Pheasant and speaking gently--"I know
it is quite impossible to keep babies out of mischief. Don't you think
it would be better if you had a nurse for Mooey? It would give you so
much more freedom. Mrs. Patch has a young niece who might easily be got
to come by the day."

"I can't afford a nurse for him. Pheasant has nothing else to do, and
Bessie takes him off her hands sometimes," said Piers.

"One could see this morning," returned Alayne, still looking at
Pheasant, "how well Bessie looks after him. He might easily have got
into danger."

"I quite agree," said Renny. "We'll engage the Patch girl, and I'll pay
her wages."

This was not at all what Alayne had intended. It was not fair. Already
he was doing far more than was necessary for Pheasant and Piers. Alayne
sometimes wondered if they or he realised what the cost of keeping three
people amounted to in a year. In spite of her effort to control it, her
face fell the corners of her mouth went down. Piers's eyes were on her.
He smiled triumphantly as though at a victory beyond mere matter of
money, and said:

"Thanks awfully, old man! There's no doubt that it will be a relief for
Pheasant, and we shall all feel reasonably sure that the kid won't be
upsetting Alayne. For my part I think it would be much better if he
didn't come to the table."

"He shall come to breakfast and tea but not to dinner or supper," said
Renny dictatorially.

Mooey did not like this discussion about his meals. He laid his forehead
against the edge of the table and wept. Piers got up, threw him across
his shoulder as though he were a parcel, and carried him out.

Before she followed him Pheasant said:

"Thank you very much, Renny. It will be nice having a nurse. I'm not
going to be excessively grateful though, because I think you are doing
it much more for Alayne than for me."

They were alone, except for Wakefield. How often it seemed to Alayne
that they were alone except for him. He had grown quieter of late. He
was growing taller too, and he often had a brooding, half-sulky air.
Then, again, he would be his mischievous precocious self.

Renny turned sideways in his chair and crossed his legs, regarding her
with a pleased air. "I've got something nice for you to do," he said.
Wakefield also turned sideways in his chair, crossed his legs, and
folded his arms. Alayne drew the vase of roses from the centre of the
table toward herself, withdrawing her hand just at the spot where the
roses and their foliage would intervene between her face and Wake's.
This was an unpremeditated gesture. It was simply that she must do
something, though it were merely symbolic, to shut him off from herself
and Renny.

"What is it?" she asked, trying to look pleasantly eager.

"I've arranged for you to read French with the little Lebraux girl. You
see, she has no one to speak it with now."

"But why should I? I suppose she reads French better than I do already.
And I speak it very little."

"Then it will be a help to you as well."

"But I don't want to do it!" The thought of reading or speaking French
to a child whose native tongue it was, bored and intimidated her. She
would not have minded teaching a child ignorant of the language, but
that the child should know it better than she, should perhaps go home to
criticise her accent to her mother, was not to be endured.

"Don't be silly! I've promised for you."

"It is impossible."

In exasperation he poured down a cup of scalding tea. "That's because
you dislike Clara Lebraux."

"So her name is Clara!"

"Why not?" He had nothing to conceal, but the colour of his face
deepened at the implication of intimacy in her tone.

"No reason at all. It is a name I've never cared for. And I do not feel
attracted to Mrs. Lebraux. But that has nothing to do with my refusal to
read French with her child." Her voice wavered. She picked up a morsel
of bread and began to pulverise it between her finger and thumb. "Renny,
can't you understand? It would be embarrassing for me to attempt to
teach that girl!"

"Not to _teach_! To _read_ with. There's a vast difference."

"I am sorry, but I can't make the effort."

"Not to please me?"

"To please you!" she repeated, raising two blazing eyes to his face.
"Why should it be so necessary to your pleasure?"

"It's not. But I hope I have some compassion in me.... Give me one
sensible reason why you won't do this and I'll try to understand."

"I have explained."

"If anyone else offered such an excuse I can imagine what you'd say!"

"Can you?" She turned her head aside indifferently.

"Yes. You'd say they were being self-conscious and self-centred."

She directed a hurt and angry look at Wakefield, then rose from the
table. "Not before an outsider, please," she muttered, and left the
room.

Renny took out his cigarette case, extracted a cigarette and lighted it.
He smoked in silence, his face twisted into a peculiar grimace which, if
it had been observed by one of his kin, would have been translated by
them as expressing a mood of defiance and chagrin. No one saw it.
Wakefield was sitting with his elbow on the table, his head resting on
his hand. The last of three sighs drawn from the depths of his being
disturbed Renny's reflections. He shot an enquiring glance at the boy,
noticed the despondent droop of the smooth dark head and the thinness of
the childish wrist.

"What's the matter, kid?" he asked gently.

"Nothing." The word was scarcely audible.

"Aren't you feeling well? Are you tired?" A tone of anxiety at once came
into the elder's voice. Behind the sheltering hand he saw the boy's
mouth trembling.

"Come here," he said, and pushed his chair back from the table.
Wakefield came round to him with averted face. Renny pulled him to his
knee. "Tell me," he repeated, "aren't you well? Is it your heart?" He
put his arm about him and pressed his thin muscular hand above the weak
organ as though he would impart some of his vitality to it.

Wakefield shook his head. Then he said, twisting a button on Renny's
coat:

"It's Alayne. She doesn't like me any more. Just before she went she
called me an outsider. Did you hear her?"

Renny gave an embarrassed laugh. "That meant nothing! Married people
call others outsiders sometimes--I can't just explain why."

"Well--if you can't explain--it's just as though you call me an outsider
too."

Renny answered impatiently--"When married people make love or quarrel
they generally like to be unobserved."

"You didn't mind my being here! And it wasn't only what she said; it was
what she did. She pulled the bouquet so that it shut me out. She didn't
think I noticed, but I did. She'd like to shut me out altogether, and
there's no use in your saying she wouldn't, Renny." He began to cry
softly, producing a ball of a handkerchief and rubbing his eyes with it.

Renny burst into noisy laughter. "Why, you damned little idiot, you know
very well that a dozen wives couldn't come between you and me!" He
hugged Wake to him and kissed him repeatedly. Wakefield's crying, from
being soft, rose to almost hysterical sobs.

Alayne had left her book in the room and, thinking that by now Renny
would have gone, she was returning for it. However, when she reached the
door and saw the brothers, she quickly passed on toward the
drawing-room.

"Alayne!" Renny called. "Come here!"

She returned to the doorway and looked in at them, with a
self-controlled expression on her pale face.

"You have hurt Wake's feelings by calling him an outsider. I explained
that to him. Now he says that you moved the flowers so that they would
shut him off from us!" He gave her an entreating look as though to
say--"I can't have him worried! You must bear with his whims and with my
love for him."

She saw the look and read in it only a repetition of his willingness to
impose a disagreeable obligation on her that he might gratify someone
who roused the protective instinct in him. The sight of Wakefield
clinging about his neck, Wakefield's shuddering sobs, Renny's look of
entreaty, filled her with cold anger. What Renny wanted her to do, she
felt, was to come in and pet and reassure the boy. She could not do
that, something reticent in her forbade the demonstration. She felt that
even to deny that she had moved the flowers for a purpose was a
debasement of her dignity.

After an inward struggle she said--"I had no idea that I would hurt
Wakefield's feelings. I'm sorry, if I did.... But I can't help thinking
it is a pity he hears so much of the grown-up talk. He's too
introspective. He's becoming neurotic, I'm afraid.... And isn't a boy of
thirteen too big to be kissed?" She spoke in jerky, uneven sentences.

"I'm not thirteen! I shan't be thirteen till next week," objected
Wakefield, in a choking voice.

Renny said--"His father was dead before he was born. His mother died when
he was born. He's always been--well--I've often wondered if I should rear
him. You can scarcely blame me----"

She interrupted--"But anyone who knows anything of child psychology knows
that to talk that way before him is the worst thing possible for him. It
puts into his mind the thought of forlornness, dependence, weakness.
Cannot you see?"

"No, I can't," he answered hotly. He glared at her with the look of old
Adeline. "If your father had been a horse-dealer, instead of a New
England professor, we might understand each other better."

"Renny," she cried, "how can you?" and she flew upstairs to her room.

Her room was to be her refuge more and more often in the following
weeks. Her feeling of estrangement from the family increased rather than
decreased. For Renny, to the springs of whose life she had joined her
own, in faith and in passion, she experienced a strange numbing of the
emotions. She waited till this darkness should pass like a trailing
cloud, and the light of their love burst forth again. She withdrew
herself spiritually as well as physically. On his part, he treated her
with more than usual politeness before the others and avoided her in
secret. Piers and Pheasant believed that harmony had been restored
between Renny and her, but believed also that a delicate balance was
being maintained in their relations which might easily be upset.
Wakefield brooded on the scene in the dining-room but repeated nothing
of it to the other members of the family. At this time he acquired the
curious habit of going to the room he occupied with Renny when Alayne
retreated to hers. When she closed her door, she often heard the closing
of that door, as though in mockery. Sometimes, as she sat writing, she
heard the door open, then, after a space, close again, as though he had
stood in the doorway listening. What did the boy do in there? She was
convinced that he did nothing but brood or dream, that he went there for
no purpose but to vex her.

The weather was hot and her room, shaded by a giant fir tree, was always
cool and pleasant. Mr. Cory, of the New York firm of publishers for whom
she had been a reader, sent her several advance copies of new books from
his autumn list, asking for her opinion of them. He flattered her by
telling her that he had found no one adequately to take her place, on
whose judgment he could so rely. The books he sent, the subjects of
which were history, biography, and travel, interested her intensely. She
wrote him long letters about them. So she created for the time an
independent world of her own within the walls of Jalna, in which she
recaptured some of the spirit of tranquillity and contemplation of her
old life. It was a false tranquillity, a contemplation born of her
passion to conceal her real state from herself. A word, a glance, would
be enough to shatter her self-control. But each day, as the heat
increased, her face became more of a cool mask. She became even more
fastidious in her dress. Renny, as though fastidiousness were a weapon
which he could use as well as she, became more and more careful of his
dress. Pheasant and Piers, in emulation, made themselves as spruce as
possible. Even Wakefield wore his best clothes every day, and Mooey
screamed for a silver napkin-ring for his bib. Piers had forbidden
Pheasant to bring him to the table, and Renny had not again expressed a
desire to have him there. A depressing quiet hung over their meals,
often only broken by Rags's whispered conversations with Renny.

In late July Alayne had a letter from her aunts on the Hudson expressing
their intention of visiting her. The thought of a visit from them was
both delightful and worrying. They had never been to Jalna, and she
longed to show them the old house and the rambling estate. Yet should
she be able to conceal from their shrewd and loving eyes the present
volcanic barrenness of her life? Might not an eruption be possible
during their visit? She was all the more apprehensive because they had
never met Renny. They had met and given their hearts to Eden at first
sight. The divorce and her re-marriage to Eden's brother had been a
shock to them. It was only now that they could make up their minds to
visit her. She wished that the elder Whiteoaks were at home. The
presence of Augusta, Nicholas, and Ernest appeared to her now as a
protecting wall behind which she might conceal her own heartache. She
had always thought how interested she should be if she could see her
aunts, so refined, so whimsically proper, so gingerly perched above all
ugliness in life, in the same house with the three elderly Whiteoaks,
across whom lay the lusty shadow of old Adeline.

How she had welcomed the departure of Ernest and Nicholas for England!
She had looked forward to a summer of greater freedom in her life with
Renny, a summer of fulfilment, of spiritual development of their love.
And it had come to this! If the Uncles had not gone away it might not
have come to this. Even that thought came to her. Over and over again
she lived through their misunderstandings and tried to see what she
might have done to prevent them. She could not discover anything in her
most self-accusing mood that would have prevented them except the
humbling of her spirit to his and the absolute conforming to the life of
the house. She believed that if she had it all to live over again that
she would do just that. Humble her spirit and conform absolutely to the
life of the house. Perhaps, if only she had agreed to read French with
that unattractive Lebraux child, all might have been well. But the
thought of the child brought the thought of the mother, and the thought
of the mother brought a rush of anger and jealousy that drove all else
from her mind. She discovered that she was bitterly jealous of Mrs.
Lebraux, that she was even jealous of little Pauline. When Piers made a
remark to Renny in reference to the fox-farm, and Renny answered in
obvious familiarity with its affairs, she dare not look at them lest
they should read the anger in her eyes.

Looking back over her acquaintance with Renny she recognised that he had
always irritated her, excited some latent antagonism in her, sometimes
as though deliberately, more often by simply being himself. She and Eden
had never quarrelled. From the first her love for him had in it a
maternal quality. There was nothing maternal in her love for Renny. It
was instinctive, violent, and without rest. And, though there was no
rest in it, no peace in it, neither was there growth. It was like the
sea, eternally beating against its shores, yet eternally bound by them.

What had they been quarrelling about? Old Benny--the sheep-dog. Mooey--the
baby. Pauline and Wakefield--children. Was their life together to be
ruined by quarrels over dogs and children? If only she had a child of
her own, things might be different. But Renny had never expressed a
desire for a child of his own....




                                   XX


                                 BARNEY

Alma Patch was the girl who came as nursemaid to young Maurice. She was
the niece of the village nurse, and her aunt was well pleased to be the
means of installing her at Jalna. The village nurse was also the village
gossip and, as the Whiteoaks were the mainstay of rumour and of tattle,
Alma would be a conduit through which a continuous supply would flow.

She was a strong girl, with sandy hair, a freckled face, and she never
raised her voice above a whisper except when she sang or laughed, which
she did in a piercingly high soprano. She was as lazy as possible and
very fond of children. To sit on the grass minding Mooey, while he
trotted about her in his play, sometimes stopping to throw grass on her,
or hug her, or even kick her, was Alma's idea of bliss. Then, to fill
her stomach with the good food, and her mind with the rich gossip, and
to return home at dusk an object of rare importance to her friends,
constituted a life of such perfection as it is given to few to enjoy.

About the time of Alma's appearance at Jalna, Pauline Lebraux gave
Rennie a nine months' old Irish terrier dog, named Barney. It had been
sent to her for her birthday by a friend of her father's in Quebec. It
had been impossible for her to keep him because he spent all his time in
barking at the foxes, exciting them to frenzy. So, though she loved him,
and because she loved him, Pauline presented him in turn to Renny on his
birthday. As though he needed another dog!

But he seemed to have unlimited room in his affections for dogs and
children. He looked on Barney as the one dog to fill a long-felt want.
But the terrier was the wildest, most untamable creature that had ever
been on the place. Piers thought he was excessively inbred. Renny, who
was an advocate of inbreeding, insisted that Barney was the victim of a
system of raising dogs like wild animals. He guessed that he had been
brought up in an enclosure without a word of kindness. To make friends
with him, to teach him what companionship of man and dog may be, this
was a task after Renny's heart. And Barney was beautifully set up, had,
beneath the untamed look in his eyes, a look of desperate need.

But he would not allow himself to be touched. He scarcely knew his name.
He carried his meals into a corner, growling like a wild animal while he
devoured them. He slept in Wright's room over the garage, but he did not
make friends with Wright. From the moment he was released in the morning
he ran hither and thither as though half-demented by the multitude of
strange sights about him and the vast open spaces where he might run at
will. The fields of grain were tall and a deep golden colour. Barney
spent most of his days in them as in a jungle. Deep in a field a
movement might be seen stirring the ears of wheat or barley, and then
stillness again, for it was sultry weather and no breeze stirred the
grain. Sometimes when Renny walked past the fields, followed by his two
Clumber spaniels, Barney's face would appear watching them cautiously
from the shelter of the grain. He would let them get a little way ahead,
then, in his concealment, he would bound after them till he was again
abreast, and again he would peer out with that same desperate look in
his eyes.

The spaniels appeared to understand all about him. In his own way Renny
had explained the situation to them. They would give a friendly look in
his direction but no more, walking with dignity at their master's heels.

At last a day came when he emerged from the shelter of grain and ran in
the open for a little way near Renny and the spaniels.

"Just watch," Renny advised Piers, who had been inclined to jeer, "and
you will see a splendid dog in him yet. He's never had a chance till
now, and he's responding to it every day."

"He's getting to look a little beauty, no doubt about that," acceded
Piers. "He's grown a lot since he came. But I'm willing to bet that it
will be cold weather before he comes of his own accord to you and lets
you pet him."

"What will you bet?"

"A fiver."

"Done."

Renny won the bet by a wide margin. He was riding his favourite roan one
morning at a canter along the path through the wood, when suddenly he
came upon Barney, his head in a burrow. When he withdrew his head he
seemed too astonished for movement. He stood sniffing the roan's legs,
then raised himself to sniff Renny's boots. When horse and rider moved
on he trotted close behind. From that time he followed the roan whenever
and wherever he could. Inside of a month he had come to Renny of his own
accord and laid his head on his knee.

Renny's pleasure in this achievement was so great that he boasted of it
even to Alayne, who did not care for dogs, and for this dog less than
others, since it had come from the fox-farm. But she tried to soften her
face, which felt rigid, into a sympathetic smile.

One day in late August, when a thunderstorm was pending, Renny and
Piers, accompanied by Wright, went in the car to a sale twenty miles
away. Pheasant was in bed that day, feeling ill. She had told Alayne
that morning that she believed she was going to have a child.

Alayne wandered about the downstairs trying to settle herself at
something, but the air was full of electricity; there was a sulphurous
light in the sky which seemed uncomfortably near the tree-tops, and she
felt disturbed, even shaken, by Pheasant's news.

A second child for her and Piers! Perhaps another son! And there were no
signs that she herself might become a mother. She had not yet been
married a year and a half, but she had a morbid premonition that she was
to be childless. That she was to see Meggie and Pheasant rejoicing in
their motherhood, see Renny carrying their children in his arms, and
feel herself married without the fulfilment of marriage. She leaned
against the window of the sitting-room, looking out on the side lawn
where, in the sultry shade, Mooey lay stretched on his back idly,
lifting first one leg and then the other. Alma sat beside him, her face
a blank from contentment and heat. Alayne wondered what went on in that
head under the sandy hair. She watched the girl's large pink hands pluck
blades of grass and tickle her own lips with them.

As she was wondering this, Alma's eyes became round and prominent with
terror. She opened her mouth wide and gave a piercing scream. The shock
to Alayne was all the greater for never having heard the girl utter a
sound above a whisper up to this moment. Mooey sat up and looked at
Alma.

"Do it again!" he said.

As though at his bidding, Alma repeated her scream, and now Alayne saw
what she was screaming about. Barney was flying round and round the lawn
in a kind of aimless fury, his jaws snapping rhythmically, and foam
whitening his lips. He passed beneath her window then, and she saw his
eyes fixed in an hallucinated glare. From a window above came Pheasant's
shrieks, then her agonised call to Alma to run with Mooey to the house.

"This way!" cried Alayne. "This way! Bring him to me!"

Alma snatched up the child and passed him through the window to Alayne
just as the dog again flitted by like a creature from a nightmare.
Somehow she managed to drag the girl in also.

She ran to the hall and met Wragge there. His pale face had become
ashen.

"Did you know that that dog of Mr. W'iteoak's 'as gone mad, ma'am? Isn't
it terrible?" He ran to the front door, shut and locked it.

Alayne could hear a commotion of voices in the basement. She could hear
Pheasant frantically questioning child and nurse upstairs. One of the
farm-labourers, named Quinn, appeared at the back of the hall. He said:

"Don't you think we'd better shoot the dog, ma'am? He's gone clean mad!"

"Yes, yes--we _must_ have him destroyed! It's too terrible. Oh, I wish
Mr. Whiteoak were here!"

"The cook said that if you would let me have Mr. Whiteoak's gun--I could
use that."

"His gun...." She looked at him blankly.

"The cook says it's in his room."

"I'll fetch it, ma'am," put in Wragge.

"No, Wragge. I will get it."

She ran up the stairs, feeling electrified to strength and competence.
Pheasant followed her to the door of Renny's room. "It's in a leather
case," she said, "in the cupboard."

Alayne found the case, rapidly unbuckled the straps and took out the
polished gun. Her hands were steady as she carried it down to Quinn and
put it in his hands. She suddenly remembered Wakefield, and asked where
he was.

"Oh, ma'am," cried Wragge. "'E's over there with 'is pony, and the dog
has run to the stables!"

Quinn hurried off with the gun.

Pheasant called from upstairs--"Alayne! Come--quick! You can see him from
my bedroom window!"

Alayne flew up to her, but when she reached the window, though the
stables were visible, nothing living was to be seen but Quinn running
toward them with the gun in his hands.

"Had you seen the dog to-day before this happened?" she asked.

Pheasant pressed her fingers to her temples. "Yes. I saw him following
Quinn. Quinn was taking the roan and one of the farm-horses to be shod.
Barney was following the roan. I thought it was funny, because I'd never
seen him go out on the road before.... There! Quinn has gone into the
stable! Oh, isn't it horrible? Shall I close the window so we shan't
hear the gun go off?"

Mooey shouted--"I want to hear the gun go off! Bang! Bang! I'm not
f'ightened!"

"I don't think you had better shut it. It is stifling. The hottest day I
have seen this summer."

They stood staring in the direction of the stables, of which only a part
could be seen through a break in the row of firs that had been planted
with the object of hiding them, as though they expected to see something
frightful enacted there. Presently they heard shouts, and their
fascinated eyes saw figures running past the open space. Then, between
the firs, the terrier appeared and ran on to the lawn in a strange
lolloping gait and evidently at the point of dropping. There was a tear
on his haunch from which the blood dripped to the grass. He raised his
head and looked up at the windows where they stood.

Quinn and two other men ran into view carrying hayforks. One of them, a
youth from a Glasgow factory, kept well behind the other two, his round
face stupid with fear. Pheasant and Alayne did not realise what the men
were going to do until they ran up to Barney and began to jab their
forks into him. He fell, bleeding in a dozen places.

Then the Glasgow youth pressed forward and thrust his fork so deep into
the body that he had to put his foot on it in order to pull out the
prongs.

Alayne had Pheasant, fainting, on her hands.

Young Maurice asked--"Why did they do that? But Barney was naughty,
wasn't he? Why does Mummy want to sleep?"

Alayne had got Pheasant back to her bed and had restored the child to
his nurse. Wakefield had rushed into the room. His eyes were glittering
with excitement.

"Did you see?" he cried. "Wasn't it terrible? I was standing quite
close, behind the bushes. I saw everything, you know. Quinn didn't
understand Renny's gun. He couldn't make it go off. They chased Barney
round and round the stable, and Quinn managed to wound him, but he got
away and ran toward the house. I believe he thought he'd find Renny
here. Won't Renny be surprised when he comes home? I hope I can be the
one to tell him!"

The car, in which rode Renny, Piers, and Wright, did not turn into the
drive until late afternoon. They drove straight to the stable, and there
were half a dozen men about eager to tell the news.

"You God damned fools!" exclaimed Piers. "The dog no more had rabies
than you have! He was hysterical. Nothing more."

Wright said--"If I had been here he'd never have been killed. We've had
them like that before this and they got over it; didn't they, sir?" He
turned to Renny.

Renny was staring at Quinn, who had told excitedly of his prowess but
who was now looking slightly abashed. The Glasgow youth stood close by,
eager for praise, if there were any, but disclaiming all responsibility
in the act.

"Do you mean to tell me," said Renny, "that four of you chased that
puppy through the stables with pitchforks, then rounded him up on the
lawn and butchered him?"

"The gun wouldn't go off," muttered Quinn.

"What gun was it?"

"Yours, sir. Mrs. Whiteoak went and got it for me."

"Why didn't you shut him in the loose-box?"

"Gosh, I wouldn't have touched him on a bet, sir. He looked something
fierce."

"Where is he?"

They had buried him.

"Dig him up! I want to see him."

They led the way to the spot and the Glasgow youth, eager to put himself
right, snatched up a spade and thrust it violently into the ground.

Renny took it from him. "Here!" he said, "do you want to crack his
skull! I'd sooner see yours cracked."

He began cautiously to uncover the body. When it lay exposed he bent
over it. He turned it on its other side, frowning at the wounds. He ran
his hand along the spine in a quick caress, then straightened himself.

"You made a pretty mess of the job," he said. He added, to Wright--"Have
the head taken off, Wright. I shall send it to be examined. He should
never have been taken on the road in a heat like this."

He returned to the house. In the hall he met Alayne.

"Well," he said with a grin, "so you managed to murder my dog among you,
while I was away!"




                                  XXI


                              WHOSE FAULT?

They had not spoken since.... News travelled fast at Jalna, and she had
already heard, when she met him in the hall, an exaggerated account of
all that had happened since his return. The Glasgow youth had run to the
house to tell his friend Bessie. Bessie had run on tiptoe up two flights
of stairs to gasp it out to Alma as she was giving Mooey his bath. Alma
had repeated it with whispered embellishment to Pheasant when she
carried some toast and tea to her. Pheasant had told Alayne.... When
Alayne and Renny met in the hall, she had already heard how he had gone
into a terrible rage, threatened the men who had despatched Barney,
insisted on himself unearthing the body, had caressed it, wept over it.
The sight of him standing there with the light from the stained-glass
window turning his clothes into motley, falling on his red hair in a
purple stain, was shocking to her. The frozen grin on his face was
repellent. When he said what he said, she drew back, with a feeling of
repulsion. She made no answer but stood rigid, her back to the wall, her
palms pressed against it while he passed.

He went into the sitting-room, shutting the door behind him. A moment
later she heard him draw the folding-doors between there and the
dining-room with a bang. She was filled with bitterness and disillusion.
And yet, she felt, she had always known he was like this. Had not her
love for him been a fever that had turned the very blood in her veins to
something alien, turned her flesh to the flesh of desire, made her
pulses dance to the tune his maleness played.

As she climbed the stairs with heavy limbs she said to herself--"I never
liked him. That is the trouble. I was mad for him. But I never have
liked him."

In her room she sat by the window looking down on the parched garden.
The flowers hung their limp heads. Their foliage separated, showing the
dry earth beneath. Her own head ached so that she could scarcely hold it
up. She pressed her fingers to the space between her eyebrows where
there was a knot of pain. She felt as though she were going to be ill.

The face of Eden rose before her, smiling, with half-shut eyes. She
remembered how he had come to her like a young god to deliver her from
the humdrum of her life, to fill her heart that had been emptied of all
love except love for the dead. How soon the presence of Renny had
blotted out all that! Eden must have become aware in all his sensitive
nerves of the change in her. He was not to be blamed, then, for turning
to someone else. She saw Eden in a new light....

The face of old Adeline rose before her feverish eyes. She saw her
standing in the hall, under the stained-glass window, as she had seen
her on the first day she had set foot in Jalna. Bright patches of colour
were spilled over her, a purple stain across her forehead, and she was
grinning at all the family standing about. But there was only savagery
in the grin. She was going to say something terrible.... Alayne thought,
pressing her fingers to her forehead--"Is there no ease of spirit in this
house? What am I to do? If I go on feeling as I do, what is to become of
me? If I go on making him hate me, how can I live here? Even now I am
having strange thoughts ... confusing him and his grandmother in my
mind...."

She sat with drooping head, going over incident after incident in her
life with Renny, trying to discover if she had been at fault in the
marked change in their relations. She could not see where she had failed
him. She had managed to live peaceably in the house with Piers, who
hated her, but she could not live peaceably with Renny, who--but did he
love her? Or had he felt for her only a desire for her body, while she
stretched out her hands for the satisfaction of her soul? She could not
blame herself. Something stubborn in her refused to accept the blame.
Again the jealousy of Clara Lebraux surged through her like a racking
pain. She felt it in her back, in her throat, in the nerves of her
stomach. That woman--with her streaked hair, her pale eyelashes, her bony
hands--what fascination was there in her that drew him to the fox-farm
when he might have been with his wife? The thought came to her with a
shock that, because Barney had come from the fox-farm, he was doubly
dear to Renny--that he even suspected her of agreeing only too willingly
to his destruction because of that.

When she went down to supper she found that places were laid for only
herself and Piers. She was not surprised that Pheasant was unable to
come to the table, but where was Wakefield--where, that other? Piers,
looking at his plate, muttered that Pheasant was still feeling rocky and
that young Wake had had a turn with his heart--too much excitement--and
was sleeping. He did not speak of Renny, but soon she saw Wragge pass
through the hall carrying a tray. He went into the sitting-room and shut
the door cautiously behind him. She saw Piers frowning, the corner of
his mouth drawn to one side. Wragge, when he returned to the
dining-room, wore an expression of profound secrecy, as though torture
would not induce him to reveal what was taking place on the other side
of the folding-doors. Alayne remembered how Meggie had had most of her
food carried to her on trays by Wragge. Was Renny going to follow Meg's
example? She had an hysterical desire to laugh. She could not choke down
the cold roast beef, but nibbled a little cress and thin bread. Piers
stolidly consumed beef and peaches and cream. Now and then he cast a
frowning look at the door of the sitting-room.

She made no attempt to talk to Piers. She did not know what his attitude
toward her in the affair was, but she supposed he blamed her. If he
brought up the subject of the dog's death she did not think she could
endure to remain at the table. However, he did not; but, when he had
half-finished his meal, he began to talk about the sale which he had
attended. In a muffled voice he gave her a description of the animals on
which he and Renny had bid. He carefully described a Clydesdale stallion
he had bought and a nice cobby mare, for general use, purchased by
Renny. The stallion had cost a pretty penny, but he hoped to get it out
of him again. She answered in monosyllables, but she was grateful to
him, for she saw that he was trying to make things easier for her. When
he had finished the glass of ale he always had for supper, he held his
cigarette case out to her and, for the first time during the meal their
eyes met. She saw that the look in his was kind, and her own filled with
tears. He began gruffly and hurriedly to talk of the crowd at the sale,
the intense heat, and to describe the mannerisms of the auctioneer. He
knew she did not smoke, but he had offered her a cigarette as though he
wanted to do something for her. She accepted and puffed at it awkwardly.
It was the first time they had ever sat for a while together talking.

Now five days had gone by and she and Renny had not spoken. She lived in
a kind of haze. Sometimes, when she was dressing in the morning, her
mind became confused. She would hesitate, look blankly about the room,
and begin to take her clothes off again, thinking it was night instead
of morning. Then, seeing the sunlight, she would remember and
shamefacedly continue her dressing. She had always been proud of the
clarity of her mind, of the fact that she could keep her wits about her.
She had often been intolerant of Eden's bemused ways. There had been a
break in the weather, and now the nights were wet, but with each morning
came bright sunshine that was continually being darkened by moving
clouds. A forlorn look had descended upon the flower-beds.

She had never before been in a house with anyone with whom she was not
on speaking terms. She was not able to remember a shadow in the cheery
attitude of her parents for each other. Renny addressed all his
conversation to Piers, seeming to include Pheasant in his resentment. He
was even less indulgent to Wakefield and insisted that he go to his
lessons, though it was plainly to be seen that he was not well. Pheasant
seemed absorbed in her own musings. She, too, was ailing and several
times had to leave the breakfast-table. On three days of the five Renny
did not return to dinner. In the relief of his absence Pheasant and
Wakefield chattered continually, while Wragge regarded them with
disapproval. Though Alayne discovered that Renny had, in these absences,
dined with the Vaughans, she still believed that he spent much of his
time with Clara Lebraux.

On the fourth day Wragge brought the post to Renny at the
breakfast-table. He tore open a letter and, having read it, handed it to
Piers.

"You see," he said, "it's just as I said. It was scarcely worth the
trouble of sending it, but I wanted to prove that it was nothing but
callous cruelty."

Piers read the note and gave a sympathetic grunt.

"Show it to Alayne," said Renny, looking at his plate.

Piers slid the paper along the table to her. She picked it up and read.
It was the report from the Government Analyst, stating that the head of
the dog had been examined and that no evidence of rabies had been
present. She read it dully, feeling nothing more than a quickening of
her sense of injury.

"Let me see it, please!" cried Wakefield. "Is it something interesting?"

Alayne passed on the paper to him.

"I don't think," said Piers, "that anyone was to blame for that. The men
did just what was natural--seeing a dog in that condition. Alayne did
just what was natural. She wanted him put out of the way with the least
possible pain. And it wasn't Quinn's fault that he didn't understand the
gun.... If it had been my dog, I'd just try to put it out of my
head--forget the whole thing!" He began to draw horizontal lines on the
tablecloth with his knife.

"Yes, indeed!" cried Pheasant, revolting against her silence of the
week. "If ever I saw a terrifying object it was that dog! If he wasn't
mad he'd no right to act as though he was and frighten darling little
Mooey and Alayne and me almost to death!"

"Don't bring me into it, please," said Alayne coldly.

Renny sprang up from his chair. "Christ!" he exclaimed, "you make me
sick, the lot of you!"

He gave a wild look about the room and then flung out of it and out of
the house.

Those who were left exchanged one startled look. Then Piers slit open a
letter to himself, Pheasant bent her head over the newspaper, casting a
sidelong look at Alayne. She, summoning all her will, picked up a letter
in the handwriting of the younger of her aunts and forced herself to
read it.

Wakefield kept repeating to himself, over and over, in a gabbling
tone--"You make me sick, the lot of you.... You make me sick, the lot of
you."

Piers, suddenly becoming aware of this, scowled at him. "Shut up!" he
said curtly, "or I'll put you out."

To hide his chagrin Wakefield examined his reflection in the hollow of a
spoon, making grotesque grimaces at it.

Alayne thought--"What if Aunt Harriet is writing to say that they are
coming at once? I never can endure that with things as they are!" But
there was no word of a visit. Helen, the elder aunt, was ill. Her sister
was greatly troubled.

Alayne's first sensation was one of pure relief. Then anxiety for her
loved relation swept relief away. There was a note of foreboding in the
letter very unlike the cheerful tone with which Aunt Harriet was used to
face life's worries. A rather shaky postscript said that, if there were
any change for the worse, Alayne had better come. She could not bear the
responsibility alone.

All her life Alayne had been accustomed to make sudden decisions. There
was nothing of wavering in her at such moments as this. She would wait
for no telegram. She would go at once--to-day. For a moment she
considered the idea of allowing the others to believe that Renny's
behaviour was unendurable to her--of punishing him in this way. But she
put that aside. She was too proud for pretence.

She took Pheasant aside after breakfast and told her of her aunt's
serious illness. Something sceptical as well as compassionate in the
girl's expression made Alayne give her the letter to read. Pheasant
threw her arms about her and kissed her.

"Darling Alayne! I do hope it will be only a little visit! I shall miss
you so! Jalna isn't really very comfortable for a prospective young
mother these days. Oh, I do wish Uncle Nick were here! I'm sure he could
have kept us out of this tangle!"

At one o'clock Piers came in with the news that Renny had gone off
somewhere on business with Maurice. He did not say what the business was
and Alayne was of the opinion that Renny was simply spending the day at
the Vaughans. Meg had not been well, and she knew he was worried about
her. She packed clothes to last her for a month's visit. She sat down at
the writing-table in her room to write a note to Renny. She wrote one
that sounded so frigid when she read it over that she tore it up. Better
nothing than that! She began another on which, in spite of herself,
tears fell, and she tore it up too. He should get no wifely weeping note
from her. Better perhaps that he should hear the news from the family.

Piers had the car freshly washed for driving her to the station. He sent
Wright to drive it and kept out of the way at the moment of good-bye.
Pheasant had hovered about her all the afternoon. She had brought her
two little embroidered handkerchiefs as a gift. She had led Mooey to
her, and he had said, having evidently rehearsed the words--"I'm shorry I
was a naughty boy, Auntie Alayne." And held up his face to be kissed.

Wakefield begged to be allowed to see her off. He had so little in the
way of change that he was delighted when she agreed. He and Wright
carried her things into the Pullman for her. It was the first time he
had ever seen one. He exclaimed:

"How jolly this is! I wonder if the day will ever come when I'll be
going somewhere. I've lived thirteen years and I've never been anywhere.
Isn't it terrible, Alayne?" Yet there was a certain pride in his
bearing, like the pride of the oldest inhabitant. People about were
casting admiring glances at his dark eager face.

All night Alayne tossed in the grip of a nervous headache. She was at
the point of exhaustion when she reached the pretty stucco house up the
Hudson. Miss Helen was just able to recognise her. In two days she died.

When all was over and order was restored in the house she and Miss
Harriet had long talks together. Alayne's heart was wrung by her aunt's
loneliness. She made up her mind that she would remain with her for some
time. She had written twice to Pheasant and had had two letters in
reply. Things were going on about the same as usual at Jalna. She
wrote--"R. was very much surprised when you did not appear the next
morning. He did not say much, but his look was one of the completest
astonishment."

There was not much time for thought in those first weeks. Miss Archer
had many friends eager to condole with her and to see Alayne after her
long absence. The friends agreed that marriage had not improved Alayne's
looks. She had grown sallow and there were shadows under her eyes.
Rosamond Trent came out from New York exuberant, lavish of her vitality.
She had so much to tell that she took Alayne's mind off her troubles.
She spoke with admiration of Ernest Whiteoak, but it was Nicholas who
was her ideal of a country gentleman of the old school.

Miss Helen had left Alayne all her money, not a large sum, but one
sufficient to make many things possible for her which had not been
possible before. Miss Harriet expressed a desire to own a motor-car. Her
sister had been content to hire one and had been timid of the roads. Now
one was purchased, and Alayne took pleasure in driving her over the
smooth roads above the river. The autumn weather was delightful.

Alayne accompanied Miss Archer to a small club formed of ladies of the
neighbourhood. At the meetings in drawing-rooms, where elegance and a
certain austerity were combined, literature and questions of the day
were discussed. Selected members brought intelligent articles in the
best magazines, which they read aloud, enunciating so clearly that not a
word was missed by their hearers. Alayne herself read an article of
great interest, in which it was demonstrated, with quaint examples, that
the rural people of the south-western States retain in their dialect
many words of Elizabethan English.

She liked the club. She was strangely exhilarated by the mental
atmosphere of the place. She began to have the feeling of clear-headed
alertness which she had known in the days before her marriage. She was
like a plant returned to its native soil. Her complexion cleared, but
the shadows beneath her eyes remained. These remained because of lack of
sleep. No matter how well she slept during the night she woke at four
o'clock, and there was no more sleep for her except a mere snatch,
achieved between the time when the maid first stirred about the house
and the time when she herself must rise. That snatch of sleep refreshed
her. It took the edge off the sharp remembrance of the thoughts that had
kept her awake. They were thoughts of how her life was ruined, of how
these cool and pleasant days were like a clean pinafore that a child
puts on to hide its torn and shabby clothes. They were thoughts of how
she had lain in the arms of Renny.




                                  XXII


                                FREEDOM

With the departure of Alayne a change came over the family at Jalna. The
spurious order that had afflicted them during the summer was thrown
aside like hampering harness, and they ran free. In the basement, where
her persistent weekly visits of inspection had been looked forward to
with dread, it was as though the lid had been removed from a bubbling
pot. The contents of the pot bubbled, boiled over, and the smell of its
exuberance rose to the realms above.

"White wings, they never grow weary," sang Mrs. Wragge, in a rich
contralto, as she threw the remains of a joint, of which she had no
desire to make a mince, to the dogs. Her husband, with a cigarette in
his lips and his sleeves uprolled, polished the best silver coffee-pot,
the inside of which had not been washed for many a day. Bessie was
plucking a young goose, letting the feathers drift softly where they
would.

"What was that the missus called them that first day she come rampagin'
down here?" she called to Wragge.

"Plumage, that's wot. It's American for fevvars. She's got a rum way o'
talkin'. She got on my nerves if ever a lidy did."

"It's not the way the boss talks," said Bessie. "He sort of shoots the
talk at you. Makes you jump out of your skin sometimes."

"And serve you right," returned Wragge, blowing on the coffee-pot.
"You're the laziest young Canadjen I've ever seen, and I've seen a good
many."

"Give me a Cockney for laziness!" jeered the girl. "What you _do_ know
is how to _look_ busy! Why, you've been half an hour on that there
coffee-pot!"

Wragge set down the silver pot and advanced toward her. There was a
scuffle in which the air was filled with feathers, as though the
combatants were two birds. Mrs. Wragge stopped singing to stare at them
with disapproval.

"Get on with yer work and stop yer foolin', Bessie," she ordered.
"Alfred, don't you be makin' so free."

A baby voice sounded from the stairway. "Fight some more, p'ease! We're
coming."

It was Mooey. He and his cousin Patience were descending the stairs,
carrying their blue china plates in their hands.

Maurice Vaughan and his little daughter had come to stay at Jalna while
Meg was at the hospital. The two children being hungry in the middle of
the morning, Alma had set them down at their little table with bread and
butter and brown sugar before them. They had soon devoured that and,
Alma being engaged in trying to hide her freckles under some of
Pheasant's face-powder, they had stolen from the room and laboriously
descended two flights of stairs to the basement.

There they stood, three steps from the bottom, Patience in pink, Mooey
in fawn, holding their plates before them like two small mendicants, and
smiling ingratiatingly. Mrs. Wragge came to them beaming. She had the
pneumatic bosom and fat red face that inspire confidence in children.

"Well, I'm blessed," she declared, "if I ever seen two lovelier
kiddies!" Wragge and Bessie also gathered to inspect them.

"She's the spit of 'er mother," observed Rags. "Sime complexion. Sime
smile."

"She 'as 'er daddy's grey eyes," said his wife.

"This one," continued her husband, placing the tips of his fingers on
Mooey's head, "is the most beautiful blend of two parents I've hever
seen. 'E's took the best points off both on 'em."

Mooey said--"I want gingerbed, p'ease."

"There is no gingerbread, dearie," answered Mrs. Wragge.

"Jam, then, and a piece of celery."

"Patty wants an egg!" said Patience.

"Listen to them! At this hour in the morning," cried Bessie.

"They're half-starved along o' that Alma," declared the cook. "Run you
to the larder, Bessie, and fetch those two hard-boiled eggs. I cooked
too many for the jellied veal."

While the eggs were being shelled the children ran round and round in a
circle, holding their plates before them. They liked the feel of the
brick floor under their feet. Presently Patience slipped and fell. The
plate flew from her hands and was broken. Mooey tripped over her and
fell too. They sat, shouting with laughter, among the fragments of
china.

"That's nish," said Mooey, "now they'll not need to be washed!"

"Patty wants anozzer plate, p'ease," she said, holding up her hands.

"Give 'er that cracked one," said Wragge, "just to see w'at she'll do
with it."

Finding it in her hand, Patty rose and, assuming the classic attitude of
the disc thrower, she hurled it to the other end of the kitchen. At the
crash she looked astonished for a moment, then said--

"Patty wants anozzer plate!"

Bessie brought a tin plate this time. Patience took it trustingly and,
with a wide gesture, hurled it down the room. It fell with a thin
clatter.

"Oh, hell," said Mooey, "that won't b'eak!"

"Chips of the old block," said Rags sententiously.

Bessie put the hard-boiled eggs into their hands. Patience tried to cram
all hers in her mouth at once, but finding she could not do this she
nibbled a little hole in the end.

"Dis is de little door," she said, "where de chookie comes out."

Mooey licked his all over. "Nish and slithery," he said. "I like
chooky-eggs." But evidently the edge of his appetite was lost, for he
seemed in no haste to eat it. Finally he held it toward the cook. "W'ap
it up for me, p'ease, in a new shell. I'd like to keep it."

"Patty's is gone!" she shouted. "Dust my hands, p'ease." She held them
out to the cook.

Mrs. Wragge wiped the small hands on her none too clean apron and
admonished Mooey to eat his egg if he wanted to grow a big man. He got
rid of it in four bites, then came and picked up the hem of Mrs.
Wragge's long black skirt.

"You're a chooky-hen," he said, "and we're the little chookys. Come
along and get under, Patty!"

With a squeal of delight Patty joined him, and they sought to take
shelter under Mrs. Wragge.

"I'm a dog!" exclaimed Wragge. And he ran round and round the group,
yelping.

"I'm a cat!" cried Bessie. And she ran after him, mewing.

It was good fun for all but Mrs. Wragge. She was too hefty for such
artless gambolling. In trying to extricate herself from the game she
stepped on a piece of china and fell in a sitting posture to the floor.

The children watched her with interest to see whether or no she would
break. Patty fetched the tin plate and placed it on Mrs. Wragge's head.
"You're Queen of the May," she said.

Mooey held a bit of the broken china to her lips. "You're my birdie," he
said. "This is nish cuttle-fish. Peck, little birdie."

At this moment, luckily for the cook, Alma came down the stairs in
search of her charges. Alma was greatly disturbed. She had just
discovered that Patience was Mooey's aunt as well as his cousin, and it
made her head spin round and round. She explained how strange she felt,
and Mrs. Wragge suggested that they had all better have a cup of tea.
"For," she said, "I'm afraid my innards may go back on me along o' a
jolt like that."

Maurice Vaughan had had an opportunity to let his house furnished for
two months, and Renny had suggested that he take advantage of the offer,
and make Jalna his home for the period. Meggie would be in the hospital
for several weeks and, when she was convalescent, she would almost
certainly recuperate more quickly in the atmosphere of her old home.
Renny thought that Vaughanlands was unhealthy, situated as it was in a
hollow and standing flat on the ground, with no basement. The presence
of Maurice and Patience in the house would help to distract his mind
from the awful fact that Meggie was obliged to undergo an operation. The
very word hospital filled the Whiteoaks with loathing and fear. Not one
of them had ever entered one as a patient. When their time came they
simply took to their beds and died. That was all there was to it. No
surgeon's knife had ever cut into their stubborn flesh.

Only once had Renny set his foot inside such a place. Then it had been
to visit one of his men who had been injured by a kick from a horse. The
smell, the sights, the crisp, hurrying nurses had inspired him with
nervous dread.... And now his Meggie was forced to enter one for an
operation! It was useless for Maurice to tell him that he had got a
quite nice private room for her, that the chance of her not pulling
through was very remote. Nothing lightened his depression. He spoke in a
subdued tone to Maurice, as though he were already a widower. He took
Patty on his knee and questioned her sombrely as to her recollections of
her mother.

Meggie had come to tell them good-bye, looking pale, but sweetly firm
and reconciled. She had always had a sense of the dramatic, and it now
helped her in this trying time. She embraced Mooey, exclaiming--"And you
must always, always be a good boy!" She laid her two hands on Renny's
chest and said, deeply--"You will always guard little Wake, won't you?"
She visited her grandmother's room and stroked the silent Boney,
murmuring--"Never more"--having evidently confused him in her mind with
Poe's Raven.

The most heartrending thing was that she brought a little gift to each
of them. As though they needed anything to remember her by! She brought
a gift to even the least of the servants, which was Alma Patch, and
adjured her to be kind to her baby. To Piers she brought a silk
handkerchief-holder with a pink bow. To Wakefield, a little black
lacquer writing-case given to her by her grandmother when she was a
girl. To Renny, a diary. It had been given to her, she explained, the
Christmas before, but she had not had the strength to write in it.

Renny kept several account-books, but he had never owned a diary. He
carried it darkly to his room that night, lighted his lamp and sat down
at the table with the little book before him. He opened it and read on
the flyleaf in a spidery hand--"To dear Meggie with love from Nellie
Pink." This had been firmly crossed out, and underneath, in his sister's
bold hand, was written--"For Renny with my abiding love, Meggie."
Dubiously he fluttered the narrow pages under his thumb. Three-fourths
of the year were almost gone, and it was difficult to know how to set
about the enterprise. After giving his fountain pen the severe shake it
always required before it would write, he pressed open the diary at
January. The only event he could remember in that month (aside from
events in the stable, of which a meticulous record was kept in his
office) was the death of Lebraux. He wrote--"Tony Lebraux died. Age 45.
Weather very rough." ... In the space for the first day of March he
wrote--"Finch of Age. Dinner party. Finch spoke." In May he wrote of the
departure of Nicholas, Ernest, and Finch for England. In June he
recorded Wakefield's birthday and his height and weight that day. In
July he recorded his own birthday, adding the words--"Getting on." At the
end of August he wrote--"Barney killed by four brutes with hay-forks."
... His next entry was--"Alayne left to visit her aunt owing to illness
(later death) of other aunt." He stared at this entry for quite a long
while before he turned to the space for that day. Herein he
wrote--"Meggie entered hospital to-day for serious operation. Gave me
this book." ... He heaved a deep sigh, leant back and filled his
pipe.... He never opened the little book again.

Like a sweet rain after a drought, word came that Meggie had not only
survived the operation, but was progressing famously. Maurice went to
see her and returned jubilant. She was weak, but she was out of all
danger; her appetite was good, and she was cheerful as could be. Later,
Piers and Pheasant went to see her and took her jelly and a cake.
Wakefield was taken to see her, and visited several other patients
besides. But Renny did not go. When Maurice suggested it, he ordered
flowers to be sent her, but he could not go inside that place.

Now that she was safe, his spirits went up with a bound. Above stairs as
well as below there was freedom and cheeriness in the house. Without the
restraining presence of either Augusta or Alayne, dogs were allowed to
make themselves at home in every room. Wragge dusted or not as he saw
fit. Pheasant was ailing, and often did not come down to her meals. More
and more frequently certain horsy friends of Renny's came to the house.
One of these was a Mr. Crowdy, who had never until now got farther than
the hall. Nicholas and Ernest were annoyed by the very sight of him, but
now that they were not present to object he formed the habit of dropping
in at meal-time. Renny liked him about. He was so burly that he filled
the space ordinarily allotted to two people at table. His face was so
rubicund and his eyes so twinkling that his mere presence lent an air of
jollity to any scene. He bred racehorses, and he could watch one of his
horses lose a race, even fall and throw its rider, with the same
impenetrable beaming gaze with which he watched a success. He probably
understood horses as well as is possible for any human being. Renny
valued his opinions as jewels. He would stand gazing at a horse as
though in a kind of trance, then, extending the palm of his left hand,
he would, with the forefinger of his right, inscribe on it some
hieroglyphic full of mystery to all but himself. After looking at this
intently for a space he would utter his pronouncement in a thick wheezy
voice that always had a squeak of merriment in it. You might take his
advice or leave it. It was all the same to him. There was no hard
feeling in him for any man. He admired fine things of many sorts. He
would stand in the doorway of the drawing-room at Jalna and gaze
meditatively at the Chippendale furniture, then, flattening his thick
palm, he would inscribe some symbol on it with a massy forefinger, and
remark: "Good stuff. Good stuff. Very nice and showy. Not things you'd
ever want to part with, Mr. Whiteoak."

The other was a civil engineer named Chase. He was a man who had seen
hard service in the War, and had experienced hard luck prospecting in
the North. He made barely enough in his profession to keep him. He had
no ambition now except to spend as much of his time as possible among
horses and dogs. He looked on all time spent out of their company as
lost time. He loved only two human beings--Crowdy and Renny Whiteoak. He
disliked all women, from eighteen to eighty. He had a fund of droll, and
sometimes bawdy, stories which he told without moving a muscle of his
long swarthy face.

After supper these two, with Maurice and Renny, would play poker in the
sitting-room until the early hours of the morning. Maurice and Chase
both took a little too much to drink.

Once Crowdy said to Renny, while the cards were being dealt--"Mrs.
Whiteoak is paying quite a long visit in the States, isn't she?"

"Yes," returned Renny, somewhat brusquely.

The horse-breeder laid his left hand on the table, palm upward, and made
a minute memorandum on it with the forefinger of his right. Then he
looked beamingly into the faces of the other three.

"A delightful lady," he said. "A very delightful lady. Not the kind you
meet every day. No indeed."

Chase said--"Well, I've never married, and I thank God for that. I count
it as the chief among my few blessings."




                                 XXIII


                             THE YOUNG POET

Meg could have given nothing to Wakefield that he would have liked so
much as the little lacquer writing-case. It was so small, so pretty,
with dim blue flowers on its satiny black surface. Inside it looked as
though it had been the recipient of a thousand thoughts--some beautiful,
some fierce, some sad. It had belonged to Grandmother when she was a
girl in Ireland. It had travelled with her across the seas to India. All
the way back to England it had accompanied her. Then came in the
sailing-vessel out to Quebec. Then up the St. Lawrence to Jalna. When
Meggie was eighteen Gran had given it to her. Now, darling old Meggie
had presented it to him.

Words had always fascinated him, but it was only of late that he had
cared to write them down. In his early days he had delighted in
repeating the stately words used by the elder members of the family. He
had listened to himself saying them, his head on one side. He had
rejoiced in the feeling of eloquence and dignity their utterance had
created in the room. He had rejoiced in the expressions of wonder their
coming from his childish lips had created on the faces of those who
heard. He had marshalled the words like generals of noble lineage in the
newly recruited army of his speech.

But now he had a fresh delight. This was to extract the sweetness from
everyday words, to draw them together into rhymes. He beckoned to them,
and they came to him like other children, now tractable and gay, now
wayward and weeping.

This year he had hated his birthday. He was now in his teens, no longer
a little boy. He dreaded the thought of growing up. The day would come
when Renny would no longer hold him on his knee, no longer give him
those quick, tobacco-smelling kisses that somehow put strength into him.
He wished Gran might have lived longer. It did not seem fair that the
others should have had her strong arms to clasp them until they were
great men, while he, who needed her most, must lean on weaker members of
her sex.

He scarcely looked on Pheasant as a grown woman. If Mooey chose to
regard her as such, there was no object in disillusioning him; but, as
someone to lean on, she was not to be considered.

Of one thing he had come to be certain that summer. It was that Alayne
did not love him. Once, a long time ago, he had thought she did, but
that summer, he believed, she wished he were out of the way. She might
even wish him dead, as Grandmother was dead. Out of the way for ever and
ever. He pictured himself lying dead in the drawing-room as Gran had
lain, with the silver candelabra lighted at his head and feet, and Uncle
Ernest standing beside the coffin, telling of the noble and unselfish
life he had led, of the pain heroically endured. He pictured his funeral
winding up the slope to the graveyard, his grave, midway in size between
those of the infants and the grown-ups, mounded with flowers. But there
were no flowers from Alayne. He pictured how conscience-stricken she
would come weeks later with a large nosegay and find Renny there,
kneeling on the turf in his new green tweed suit, crying as though his
heart would break. He usually ended these imaginings by shedding a few
tears himself.

It seemed to him that Alayne was always watching him. Often when he
raised his eyes to hers he would find her looking at him with what he
felt was a forbidding look. He began to watch her closely. Scarcely a
word spoken or a gesture made by her in his presence was lost on him. He
knew she was immensely clever. Renny had told him that there were indeed
few women that had an intellect equal to hers. Wakefield was greatly
impressed by the parcels of books that came to her from New York. He
would have very much liked to handle them, to dip into their pages. But
once when she allowed him to look at one, of which she thought he might
understand something, he had got a smudge on the clear green cover, and,
though she uttered nothing more than an exclamation of annoyance, she
did not allow him to handle her books again.

When she went to her room and shut herself in there to write, he formed
the habit of going also to his room--his and Renny's--and sitting down at
the table with a writing-pad before him. He thought that by emulating
her habits he might, in some intangible way, absorb something of her
intellect. He would mount the stairs with a calm detached expression,
such as she wore, and close his door behind him with exactly the same
note of precision. The trouble was that he had no new books to write
about. However, there were plenty of old ones in the book-case in the
sitting-room, and he would carry, perhaps, one of Charles Lever's and
one of the Waverley novels and lay them on the table beside him. He
would earnestly read a page or so and then write--"This book is elegantly
written. I would recommend it without hesitation to all my readers."
Sentences of this sort stood out beautifully on the clean white paper.

Sometimes he would go into the passage and stand listening, with
quickening pulses, for a sound from Alayne's room that might inspire
him. Even though he heard nothing, he experienced the subtle thrill of
intellectual contact and returned to his task with renewed spirit.
Before long he abandoned the idea of writing the sort of thing Alayne
did, and gave himself up to the pleasure of writing in his own way.
Sometimes in prose, more often in rhyme, he wrote of the things he saw
and felt that pleased or saddened him. One day Alayne went to town and
left a new anthology of poetry in the drawing-room. He scarcely laid it
down during her absence. He carried it to his room and copied out the
verses he liked best. Soon he had them by heart. Afterwards, when he saw
Alayne with the book in her hand, he thought--"I know as much of that
book as you do. It's my book as much as yours." And, looking straight at
her, he would silently repeat lines from one of the poems. And Alayne
would think--"He is becoming more tiresome, more inquisitive every day."

He was so proud of the verses he himself wrote that he longed to read
them to someone. A certain instinct told him not to read them to Renny.
No--Renny would think he was being a sissy. And, if he read them to Rags,
or Pheasant, or Meggy, they would be sure to tell Renny or Piers, and he
would be laughed at. At last he thought of Alma Patch. There was
something about her pale freckled face, her sandy head, that seemed ripe
for listening. He carried his verses to her and sat down beside her on
the lawn, where she minded Mooey. He commanded Mooey to be silent. If he
moved or spoke, a tiger with eyes of fire would come up from the ravine
and carry him off to feed her young. So the tiny boy, bare-legged and
bare-armed, sat, scarcely breathing, staring fearfully into the shadows
of the ravine, while Wakefield read his verses to Alma Patch. Alma was
all receptivity. She listened, holding a blade of grass to her lips.
When it was done she whispered--"My, how lovely!"

After that he read all his poetry to her, having first made her take a
fearful oath of secrecy. At the end of each one she tickled her lips
with a grass blade and whispered--"My, how lovely!" But, though her words
and her look were always the same, her receptivity was so great that he
was satisfied. He grew happier.

When Alayne was gone he was happier still. He hoped that her aunt would
not get better too quickly. When he was told that she had died he
thought it would be rather nice if the other aunt were to have a little
illness--be just ill enough to want her dear niece at her side.... He
went boldly into Alayne's room and took the anthology of poetry from the
bookshelves and laid it in the bottom of the chest of drawers where he
kept his special things.

He did exactly as he liked in these days, and he noticed how well this
agreed with his health. He had never felt better. Mr. Fennel was away on
a holiday, so there were no lessons. The servants were jolly and
devil-may-care. He could go to the kitchen whenever he liked and possess
himself of tarts, cheese-cakes, or currant scones. He washed or not,
just as he felt inclined. He seldom combed his hair. Pheasant was too
lackadaisical at present to notice his dishevelled look. Piers and Renny
were in a relaxed mood, lenient toward everybody. They talked a good
deal about their annual duck-shooting expedition, in which Crowdy and
Chase were, for the first time, to be members of the party.

On this morning Wakefield had a most beautiful idea for a poem in his
head. It was to be more ambitious than anything he had yet
written--longer, more thoughtfully worked out, filled with smooth and
singing words. He sat down to write it in his bedroom but somehow, for
that poem, it would not do. For the first time he noticed the
wall-paper, how ugly it was, with its green and yellow pattern of
scrolls and bilious-looking birds. The shiny photographs of horses
distracted his eyes. The calendar, tacked to the wall above the table,
with its gaudy picture of a grinning girl, offended him; the smell of
Renny's pipes.... He looked about him disconsolately. What was he to do?
Here he was, with a most glorious poem in his head--all atiptoe to be
written--and suddenly he had turned against his own loved retreat.... His
eyes sought the window, rested on the tree-tops, gold and red against
the hyacinthine sky. He gazed and gazed, forgetting himself and his
poem, lost in contemplation of the brimming beauty of the day.

He knew what he would do. He would go out into the morning freshness and
write his poem there. He would have lovely things about him while he
wrote.... He gathered up his paper, pencil, and the little lacquer
writing-case, and glided down the stairs and through the hall.

He chose a yellow field from which the grain had been cut, and in which
three old pear trees stood. He sat down on the warm sandy soil beneath
one of these, his folio on his knees.... He noticed his hands, how they
were getting long, and the knuckles beginning to show, noticed that his
wrists protruded from his sleeves. He bent his face to the shining
lacquer of the folio, and caressed it with his cheek, his lips. His face
touched the flesh of his hand and he sniffed its warm sunburned
sweetness. He loved himself passionately that day, as he loved the pear
tree and the warm sandy soil. He pressed his body against the ground,
feeling its warmth. He looked up into the innermost depths of the tree.
The leaves were turning yellow, whispering together in the merest waft
of air. Among them the fruit, beautifully shaped, golden green, hung
ready to drop the very instant that its dried stem wavered in the
support of its luscious weight.

He wrote and wrote. Frowning, he sought for words, found them, and, as a
hound that has caught the scent, his spirit ran forward, panting after
its quarry. To write a perfect poem! As lovely as one of Eden's. To
write something that, in years and years to come, people would say over
to themselves and feel happy.... Who was the author? Why, the author was
Wakefield Whiteoak, the brother of Eden Whiteoak.... Poet brothers ...
the younger was thought by many to be the greater of the two.

Just as he finished, a pear fell, impaling itself on a spear of stubble.
He reached out and curved his hand about it, held it to his nostrils,
sniffing it. He was divinely happy.

He re-read the verses, polished them tenderly, copied them out again in
his most careful handwriting. How quickly they had flowed out of his
head! Only a short while ago the paper had been blank, and now a picture
was drawn on it in lovely words that would last for ever. Though the
writing of it had not taken long, the thought of it had been haunting
him for weeks; in fact, ever since he had watched the family of ducks
with the new understanding that had come to him.

He had rushed to find Bessie when the thought of the poem had first come
to him. "Look here, Bessie," he had said, "would you mind being called a
farmer's wife in something I am going to write?" Bessie had agreed with
alacrity. Indeed she had simply thrown herself at the farmer's head.

To whom could he read the poem? He had read it to the pear tree, but her
leaves had gone on whispering together as heedless of him as of the
nuthatch that twittered among them.

He lay watching a flock of birds flying high on the journey southward.
He saw how some of the birds would press forward in their haste, passing
their fellows, and how the conformation of the flock was still unbroken.
Passing and re-passing each other, they were still contained in their
formation like winging words in a poem.

The thought of Pauline Lebraux came to him. He remembered the way her
lip curled when she smiled, giving her smile an odd shadow of pain. He
felt that he would like to read the poem to her--for this one, Alma
Patch's "My, how lovely!" would not suffice.

He would go to the fox-farm and read the poem to Pauline....

He was panting when he reached the gate, for he had run all the way. He
hesitated there to take breath. Standing behind the gate-post, he
thought: "What if Mrs. Lebraux should come to the door? I cannot read my
poetry to her. I must find Pauline and take her to some place where we
can be all alone." He walked cautiously beside the fence, peering
between the palings, hoping for a glimpse of her. But, before he saw
her, he heard her laughing. She was squatting in the shade of a group of
cedars playing with her pet fox.

It had been a puny cub, the smallest of the first litter of an immature
vixen. It had promised to develop into a "Samson," of inferior woolly
underfur and uneven rusty pelt. But Pauline had taken it under her
protection. She had fed it with milk and stolen eggs for it. She had
brushed it till it shone; had taught it to know its name. It was a
secret name--formed of an English word spoken in a French way--and known
only to the fox and herself. Now it was growing into a rugged animal of
good girth, the glossy black of its pelt shading to blue black, the
silver bands on the guard hairs bright as polished metal.

Wakefield stood watching girl and fox romp gracefully together. A new
shyness came over him. The thought of reading his poem to Pauline made
him feel strangely timid. The very thought of speaking to her, of her
speaking to him, made him shrink. Yet he liked to stand, hidden,
watching her. He forgot all else in the pleasure of that till a voice
calling from within the house caused her to spring up and, followed by
the fox, disappear.

He turned back the way he had come and met Renny on the path through the
birchwood.

"Hullo!" said Renny, "where have you been?"

"To the fox-farm."

"Were you? I'm glad of that. I think you should go sometimes to see
Pauline. She's a lonely girl."

"I just looked in.... I wasn't speaking to anyone."

Renny stared. "But why did you go?"

Wake shook his head petulantly. "I don't know."

"Well, when you'd got there, why didn't you speak?"

"I don't think I like Pauline. She's so silly about her old fox."

"You wouldn't say that if you knew what she's made of him. He was such a
poor specimen I was for stripping his pelt off him, but now he's to be
saved for breeding."

"Well, well," said Wakefield judicially.

"It would be a good thing for you to have a companion of your own age.
You'd better come back with me. I'm going there now." He noticed then
the unkempt appearance of his young brother. "Look here. When have you
had a bath?"

"I went to the lake with Piers yesterday. I took soap with me."

"But your clothes----" He touched the ragged jersey. "How long have you
been going on like this?"

"Please, Renny, don't touch me! I hate to be pulled at.... I like my
rags."

"And your hair---- Good Lord, I must take you to the barber. You look like
the Minstrel Boy."

Wake's eyes blazed up into his. "I am! I've just been writing a
beautiful poem!"

It seemed too bad to be true; but Renny controlled his lips, held back
the expression of dismay that rose to them, forced them into a genial
grin. "You have? Right now--out in the open? I see you have your
writing-case that Meggie gave you. What do you say to reading the poem
to me?"

"Oh, I'll like that! If you won't be contemptuous."

"Of course I shan't! We'll sit down here. Now, fire away!"

They sat down in the shadow of the silver birches--the little cold faces
of the Michaelmas daisies were turned towards the young poet. Renny
stared at him--his little boy, his darling--at that cursed rhyming
already! Oh, that fanciful, second wife of his father's!

Wakefield opened the lacquer case and took out the verses. He read them
in a small, carefully modulated voice, with an ecstatic sing-song to it.

                               THE DRAKE

    He has two wives, both plump and blonde,
      Complacent, roguish, kind.
    I've never seen a family
      So sweetly of one mind.

    In May beneath the hemlock's shade,
      Each duck arranged her nest,
    And each upon a dozen eggs
      Composed her downy breast.

    Each thrust her head beneath her wing
      And breathed the heady scent
    Of feathers, warm straw, warmer eggs,
      While drake his ardour spent

    In rocking round and round the coop
      To ward off stalking foe,
    Or taking each in turn to swim
      In the cold stream below.

    In dim green pools they floated, dived,
      Then up the slope he led,
    Each in her turn, while wetly gleamed
      His jewel-bright, dark blue head.

    Full twenty cowslip balls one morn
      Into the nests were spilled,
    Drake, hearing those faint, infant pipes
      With pride of life was filled.

    Down a green vista of rich shade
      The farmer's wife, their god,
    Bore one warm duck, and the two broods
      To a run set on fine sod.

    Nor anger, pain, nor jealousy
      Inflame the two outside,
    Only between the bars they peer
      In love and simple pride.

    Round and around the run they rock
      In ceaseless, sweet converse.
    Each loves the other, each the brood
      For better and for worse.

    But there's no worse, time sweetly flies.
      'Tis August now, the flock
    Troop down the lawn to the cool stream
      And on its wavelets rock.

Wakefield's face was flushed, his lips trembled, as he waited for what
Renny would say.

Renny said: "I think it's very good. I like it very much."

"Oh, Renny, do you really? I think it's by far the best thing I've
done."

The best thing he'd done! So this wasn't the first time! He'd been at it
for God knew how long. "You've written others, then?"

"Oh, yes, I've been working hard all summer. I've written any number of
poems. I've read a whole book of poetry Alayne had. I've read Eden's two
books, and I know some of his poems by heart. But this is the first
thing I've done that I think is really beautiful." His eyes glowed
happily into his brother's. "I'm so glad you think so too, Renny."

The master of Jalna achieved a wry smile. "Yes, it appears to me to be a
perfectly good poem. The only question I should like to ask you is--why
write it?"

"Why, that's the whole thing--writing it! You see something you like.
Then you want to make others see it. Only you want to make them see it
more clearly than they could ever have seen it for themselves."

"But why? Why not see it yourself and be satisfied?"

"Because"--he knitted his slender black brows--"you want to give them a
picture to keep. You want them to see it the way you did."

"But you only give yourself a lot of trouble. People will read your poem
and forget all about it in five minutes. I don't understand."

"But, Renny, when Cora had her last colt, and she was so proud about it,
you came to the house and told us just how she'd whinnied to you, and
how pleased she was with herself. You mimicked her till it was just as
though we saw her."

"That wasn't writing a poem about her."

"It was your kind of poem, Renny."

"Now, look here! When Eden was a boy he was always writing rhymes. Now
he's a man, he's still at it. It's never done him any good. It's mostly
got him into trouble."

"Do you mean marrying Alayne?"

Renny's loud laugh shattered the quiet. "No, I don't mean that. The
trouble there was all hers." He changed the subject. "Now, take young
Finch. Music is his trouble. He's been strumming on the piano ever since
he could toddle. He used to stand on tiptoe to reach the keyboard and
got his hands smacked for it. I've spent a lot of money on him because I
was made to believe that he was a genius. I never really believed it. He
acknowledged himself that he had never played worse than at his recital
last spring and yet he practised six hours a day for it. Music has
brought him nothing but trouble. Poetry has brought Eden nothing but
trouble. Neither of them is strong. Now, Wake, do you want to be like
those two or like Piers and me? I know we're not artistic or anything of
that sort. Intellectual ladies don't get hysterical over us. But we're
normal chaps. We've good digestions, good nerves, and healthy
appetites."

"But I'm sickly to begin with. What's the use in my trying to be like
you and Piers?"

"You're not sickly!" retorted Renny angrily, "you have a weakness but
you'll outgrow that. I want you to outgrow this other thing too. Why,
I've never seen you look fitter than you do now. And, by George, how
you're growing! Come and saddle your pony and we'll go for a ride....
Poetry of motion, eh, what?"




                                  XXIV


                     RETURN OF NICHOLAS AND ERNEST

It was good to be at home again.

When Nicholas let himself down into the armchair in his own bedroom,
with Nip quivering with delight on his knee, he felt that this was the
return from his last trip abroad. Every few minutes Nip turned to give
his face or his hand a quick lick of the tongue. The luggage had been
carried upstairs and the box which contained the presents had been
opened.

It was the rule that a returning Whiteoak should not fail to bring
presents to the rest of the family. Especially was this the rule when
the journey had been to the Old Country. Ernest had now unpacked and
distributed the presents. He was beaming happily on his nieces with
their scarves and strings of beads (Meg's a little the handsomer), on
his nephews with their gloves and neckties. A flaxen-haired doll had
been brought to Patience and a nigger doll in striped suit and red
waistcoat to Mooey. Their eyes were sparkling with gratification. Ernest
had enjoyed himself thoroughly, but he was now beginning to feel rather
tired. He had arranged that the opening of the box should take place in
Nick's room. Now, at any moment, he might fade away to his own and
relax. He had forgotten what splendid voices his nephews had. How their
noise and laughter excited and fatigued one. Meg kept her arm about his
shoulders. It was a lovely plump arm, but it weighed on him. In the
midst of all the present-giving she was trying to tell him about her
operation. Maurice was trying to explain something about having slept in
his room which he simply could not take in because of the din. Patience
and Mooey were running round and round him in circles, holding their
dolls on high.

"Hold them nicely, children," he admonished. "Isn't yours a droll
fellow, Mooey?"

Mooey halted in his gambols to examine the leering, black face. One of
the eyes was tight shut while the other stared horribly.

"Isn't he nice?" urged Pheasant.

"He's only got one bad eye," returned Mooey.

Meg, too, urged her offspring to expressions of gratitude.

"Patience, tell Uncles how you love your beautiful dolly."

"Her's dot a dairy face," answered Patience. She moistened a corner of
her diminutive handkerchief on her tongue and began to rub the doll's
cheeks. "I s'all wash her face," she said, "but not her breeches."

"Here!" cried Mooey, "you're not allowed to say breeches!"

"I am so!"

"You are not!"

"I am so!"

"Oh, hell, you're not!"

"Pig, pig, pig!"

"Nig, nig, nig!"

Ernest glided away to his own room....

Later, when all was quiet, he returned. He found his brother with a
glass of whiskey and soda before him and Nip still on his knee.

"I had to have a peg," explained Nicholas to Ernest's disapproving look
toward the glass, "to buck me up after all that row. What an exciting
lot they are! Children getting badly spoiled too."

Ernest picked up one of the doll's shoes from the floor and put it on
his finger. "Yes--but they're very sweet. I haven't seen two prettier
children anywhere. It's very good to be home again."

"Yes. I've taken my last trip. Here I stick till they take me off to lie
beside Mama. Sit down, Ernie, and rest yourself. You must be tired after
all the to-do."

Ernest sat down near enough to stroke the little dog's head. He
remembered Sasha and sighed. He asked:

"Did you notice anything about Pheasant?"

Nicholas grunted. "Strange we weren't told of it."

"We didn't get many letters. Meggie's operation was the subject of most
of them. What do you think about it, Nick?"

"I think there are kids enough about the house, but I suppose she is
going to have a regular Whiteoak family."

"Poor child! She looks pale. Much more ailing than Meggie." He tapped
his teeth with the tips of his fingers and added, in a reflective
tone--"Do you know, Nick, that the Vaughans are still staying here? I'd
only been in my room a few moments when Maurice came to my door. He said
he'd forgotten some of his things. There were his brushes on the
dressing-table and a coat on the back of the door. I naturally looked a
little surprised and he explained, rather apologetically, that Meggie
isn't fit yet for the responsibility of housekeeping. I remarked how
well she is looking. Then he told me that their house has been let
furnished and that the tenants were very keen to have it for another
month."

"H'm. It is rather strange. But not half so strange as Alayne's not
being home yet. Why, it must be two months since her aunt died. What did
she say in her letter to you?"

"She said she was going to visit Miss Archer for a time, but I certainly
expected to find her at Jalna when we returned. Meggie has her room."

"Well," growled Nicholas, "it was hers before it was Alayne's."

"Of course, of course, but if Alayne were suddenly to return it would be
awkward."

"Where is Maurice going to hang out now?"

"In the attic, he said. In Finch's room." A yawn made his eyes water. He
had slept little on the train. When, in a short while, the dinner gong
sounded he was almost too tired to respond. Yet he still felt the
exhilaration of the return and he was curious to press further enquiries
about Alayne.

In the passage they passed Wragge carrying a tray, on which were
arranged creamed sweetbreads on toast and a glass of sherry, to Meg. The
two tall old gentlemen stood aside while the little Cockney, with an air
mysterious and important, slid past them with the tray.

Nicholas chuckled as he heavily descended the stairs. "At her old tricks
again, I see. I fancy this convalescence will extend through the rest of
her life. She's always preferred her little lunches to proper meals and,
at last, she has an authentic excuse."

Ernest, following, poked him warningly between the shoulders. Maurice
was in the hall below. He was talking to Renny and two men who appeared
at first to be strangers, but when they faced round turned out to be
Renny's objectionable friends Crowdy and Chase.

Their presence in the hall came as a shock to the returned travellers.
Renny was not quite comfortable about their advent either. He concealed
his misgivings under a formal manner. He introduced his friends to his
uncles as though unaware that they had met before.

Nicholas greeted them in a gruff tone, not claiming any former
acquaintanceship. Ernest said--"I think we have met before," and went
down the hall to look in his mother's room. He was astonished to find
Mr. Crowdy at his side. He wondered what he could say to be rude to him
but could think of nothing. It went against the grain to speak to him at
all.

The door of the room stood open. It seemed that his mother had just left
it. As the outline of her body was imprinted on the mattress of the old
painted bedstead, so her spiritual shape had left its stamp on the
atmosphere of the room. It would not be put aside. Though her fiery
brown eyes had dried to dust in their sockets, they still kindled in
this cherished retreat. The rubies and diamonds on her strong old hands
still flashed. Her carven nose, her mobile mouth, around which a few
stiff hairs had grown, were as existent in this room as the parrot that
had fondly pecked at them.

He sat, humped on his perch, his pale eyelids updrawn. A piece of
cardboard which had been given him to play with, lay torn in fragments
beneath him. He stood on one scaly foot, while with the other he
clutched a bar of the cage.

Mr. Crowdy stared at Boney over Ernest's shoulder, breathing
portentously. When Ernest, with a deep sigh, turned away, Mr. Crowdy
extended his left hand toward him, palm upward. With his right
forefinger he traced mysterious marks on it. Then, with a piercing look
into Ernest's eyes, he observed:

"Rare old bird."

"Yes," agreed Ernest, polite in spite of himself, "and he used to talk
quite wonderfully."

"Hasn't spoken a word," Mr. Crowdy informed him, "for over two years.
He'll never talk again."

"I suppose not."

They moved toward the dining-room where the others were waiting. They
gathered, six men and a boy, about the table. It was all so different
from what Ernest and Nicholas had expected. It was their first
home-coming without the extended welcome of their mother's arms.
Instead, there were present these objectionable strangers. Yet, how
delicious the roast beef was! They had tasted none like it--so juicy and
so rare--since they had left Jalna. Renny drew them on to talk of their
trip. There was a propitiatory air about him. Plainly he knew very well
what they thought of such company. But nothing could have been more
deferential than the manners of Messrs. Crowdy and Chase. After the
elderly men had had their say, Mr. Crowdy told of his one and only trip
to the Old Land in his young days, when he had gone--though he did not
clearly explain in what capacity he had gone--with a rich American
gentleman who had crossed to buy some thoroughbreds.

Chase had been born in Leicestershire but he had not a good word to say
of his own country. He never wanted to set eyes on it again. However, at
the close of the meal, he told several stories so amusing that Nicholas
and Ernest forgot for the moment their dislike of him.

But when they had returned to their rooms it all came back. They drew
each other's attention to a number of things that had jarred on their
sensibilities. Had Nicholas noticed Crowdy's nails? Had Ernest noticed
the way Chase sat sideways in his chair with his legs crossed? And
Renny's ill-groomed appearance? And Wakefield's actual rags? And the
general air of rakishness about the whole establishment? Where were
Meggie's eyes? Even Pheasant, poor child, should know better!

"Nicholas," said Ernest, in deep solemnity, "everything in Mama's room
was _grey with dust_."

They captured Piers who was passing the door, and brought him into
Nicholas's room. He came somewhat reluctantly.

"Are you," asked Nicholas petulantly, "in a very great rush? We should
like to have a word with you."

Piers seated himself on the piano stool and looked at them questioningly
out of his prominent blue eyes. He, at any rate, they thought, looked
just as he should.

"Now," growled his elder uncle, "what does it all mean? How does it come
about that those two ruffians are making themselves at home in Jalna?
Why are the Vaughans still here? And why is Alayne not here?"

Piers blew out his cheeks and expelled his breath through his lips.
"Damned if I know," he said.

"Nonsense! Of course you know all about it," Nicholas spoke sternly.

Ernest put in--"Don't bombard the boy with questions, Nick! Ask him one
thing at a time. I'll begin.... Piers, can you tell me why the care of
my mother's room has been neglected during my absence? There is a film
of dust over all the furniture. In fact every room I have seen looks as
though it needed a thorough cleaning."

"I shouldn't think you'd need to ask that question," returned Piers.
"You and Uncle Nick have been away. Renny always spoils servants. If
Mrs. Wragge cooks good meals and Rags falls over himself serving them
it's all that Renny asks. Renny doesn't mind disorder in the house. He
rather likes it. Lots of food--plenty of company--and no one to criticise
him or his dogs!"

"How long has this been going on?" asked Nicholas. "Didn't Alayne
object?"

"Rather! Latterly, her life was just one long objection I think. Once a
week she stirred things up in the basement so that the Wragges were on
the point of leaving. And she was after Wake, and after Mooey, and even
after Renny and his dogs. Pheasant heard her tell Renny that he talked
like a fool, and heard him tell her that she was the worst tempered
woman he'd ever met. I never expected that marriage to turn out well.
Then there was the affair of that dog. I don't suppose anyone wrote to
you about that. But, anyhow, Alayne and Pheasant and the house servants
and Quinn, a man I took on since you left, all thought the dog was mad,
and Alayne got Renny's gun and they stabbed him with pitchforks. Soon
after that Alayne left."

During this quick recital Piers's full lips had scarcely moved. He sat
regarding his uncles with an imperturbable expression while the tale of
horrors that had wrecked the life of Jalna gushed from him as from a
fountain. Ernest, who had been prepared to probe the matter with
question after guarded question, felt slightly sick. Nicholas, with
dropped jaw, sat dumbfounded. If the faded medallions of the carpet had
parted, disclosing a chasm beneath, they could scarcely have been more
aghast.

"But--but I thought Alayne's aunt had died!" stammered Ernest.

"So she did. Most opportunely. It gave Alayne an excuse for cutting
out."

"Piers, I don't think you know what you are saying. If you are trying
to--to pull our leg, I think you have chosen a very unfortunate time. As
you have told it, the whole affair sounds a dreadful muddle to me. Can
you understand it, Nick?"

"I only understand that if I had been here things would never have got
into such a mess."

"Just what I was saying to Pheasant the other day," agreed Piers
heartily. "We've never been without an old person in the house before.
It was as though we'd thrown our ballast overboard."

Nicholas pulled at his grey moustache grimly. "I should have been
something more than mere ballast if I had been here.... Your explanation
has been very incoherent, Piers. I wish you would tell me one thing
clearly. What does Renny think about Alayne's leaving him?"

"I don't think he realises it."

"Doesn't realise----" Ernest spoke in a bass voice for the first time in
his life.... "Doesn't realise that his wife has left him?"

"No. I don't think he does. Pheasant and I both think that he believes
she's just in a tantrum and that she'll get over it. But she won't. You
can take it from me. She's found a second Whiteoak too much for her."

Nicholas and Ernest looked at each other. Ernest wiped the beads of
sweat from his forehead and Nicholas reached for the soda-water siphon.

Piers rose from the piano stool. "Well," he said cheerfully, "I must be
off!"

"Sit down!" ejaculated his uncles simultaneously.

Piers obeyed with a smile, sweet as Meggie's, curving his lips.

Ernest demanded--"When did the trouble begin? As soon as we had left?"

"I can't quite remember. Yes--I think it did."

"You say," put in Nicholas broodingly, "that Alayne got Renny's gun, in
order to do away with some dog, and that they killed the dog with
hayforks.... I can't make it out."

"No wonder," answered Piers, "when the poor brute's head was examined
not a trace of rabies was found."

"But what was the quarrel about?"

"Well, it began with Ben's getting on Alayne's nerves. Actually on her
bedspread."

"Good heavens!" Nicholas turned red with anger. "They've killed poor old
Ben, Ernie."

"Oh, no," Piers reassured them. "It was quite another dog. It's my
opinion that he was inbred. But Renny won a fiver off me because he made
friends inside of the month."

The uncles looked into his fresh-coloured face with positive distaste.
He made them feel travel-worn and baffled. They wished he would take off
that enigmatic smile.

"What I cannot get into my head," Ernest said wearily, "is why Mama's
room should be neglected, and why Maurice should have been sleeping in
my bed."

"Because Nip wouldn't let him sleep here," answered Piers.

"How long are the Vaughans staying on?" asked Nicholas, gratefully
stroking Nip.

"Well, you know, Uncle Nick, that Maurice never minds taking favours.
He'll never stop talking about the cost of Meg's operation. He has let
his house and, if he can keep the tenants, I venture to say that he and
his will settle down here for the rest of their days."

The brothers exchanged a look. They liked Maurice. They were deeply fond
of Meg and her little one, but to have them always in the house! And
with Pheasant obviously bent on increasing the tribe....

"It would be intolerable," said Ernest vehemently. "Alayne must be mad
to have flown off like this. Her love for Renny is too strong, too fine,
to be embittered by--by the events you've been telling us of.... As a
matter of truth, I haven't got it into my head yet. The cause of their
quarrel, I mean."

Piers regarded him pityingly. "I suppose it is confusing for you, but
you can take it from me that the real cause of the trouble is Clara
Lebraux."

"Aha!" exclaimed Nicholas. "I remember very well that at Finch's
birthday party Renny sat by Mrs. Lebraux most of the evening and that
Alayne didn't trouble to hide her annoyance."

"And no wonder," said Ernest. "Mrs. Lebraux isn't at all the sort of
woman we are accustomed to. She is one of these very modern women in my
opinion."

"She would have suited Renny as a wife," returned Piers, "much better
than the one he got. He spends half his time there now. He's looking to
you, Uncle Ernest, to help him educate her youngster."

"I shall never," observed Ernest, "stay away from home so long again.
Too many new situations develop in so long an absence."

"No more travelling for me," said Nicholas. "Here I stick till they
carry me out."

There was a tap on the door and almost instantly it opened. Meg stood
there in a becoming negligee.

"Come in, come in," said Nicholas. Perhaps Meg would be able to throw
more light on the subject than it was possible to extract from Piers.

As she was passing him Piers stretched out his hand and drew her to his
knee. She relaxed comfortably against him. The piano stool swayed and
creaked.

She looked from one face to the other. "How troubled you all look! But
really you must not worry so. It is all over, and I shall _soon_ be
strong again."

"Of course, dear, of course," agreed Nicholas.

"You are looking wonderfully well now, Meggie," said Ernest. "It is hard
to believe that you have been ill for even a day."

"Yes, but all this flesh is so soft. Just feel my arm!" She extended her
arm from which the lace sleeve of the negligee fell away, disclosing its
rounded whiteness.

Ernest pressed his fingers against the smooth skin of her forearm. "It
is a little soft. However, it will soon become firmer when you are able
to take more exercise--when you are able to fly about your own house
setting everything in order again."

She smiled rather pathetically. There was a hint of reproach in her
voice as she answered:

"I'm afraid it will be some time before I am able to fly about. Maurice
still helps me up the stairs, and I am not often able to go down to
dinner."

"Yes, we missed you very much," said Nicholas. He gave her a penetrating
look from under his shaggy brows. "Surely, Meggie, you do not agree to
Renny's entertaining those disreputable fellows Crowdy and Chase. I must
say that I felt very much put out at having them to dinner on our first
day at home."

"It was a pity. But they really weren't invited. They just happened to
come at the dinner hour. And Mr. Chase can be quite charming when he
chooses."

"He hates women," said Piers, joggling her.

Ernest looked anxious. "I do not think that is good for her," he said.

"She takes no exercise," returned Piers. "She's far too fat."

Nicholas said--"I can tolerate Chase, but Crowdy is impossible. If he is
to come to the house I shall stay in my room." He ran his hand through
his thick grey hair, standing it on end.

With two fingers Meggie played a tiny tinkling tune on the extreme
treble of the keyboard. To this accompaniment she said:

"In Renny's state of mind, I think that a wholesome, hearty man like Mr.
Crowdy is very good for him. His company helps to keep Renny's mind off
his own agonising thoughts." The candour of her blue eyes was sustained
beneath the startled looks of her uncles.

"There seems to be a pretty state of affairs here," said Nicholas. "I
only wish I could make head or tail of what you two tell me."

"It is all the fault of that American woman," explained Meg. "She is
utterly selfish. She is ruining my brother's life with her lack of
understanding."

"They are incompatible. That is all there is to it," added Piers.

"But," cried Ernest, "has Alayne definitely left him?"

"Quite," said Piers. "She'll never come back. He doesn't realise it yet.
But give him time and he will."

Meg turned her head to look scornfully into the face of her brother.
"What can you know," she asked him, "of the subtleties of a woman's
mind?"

"Well, I've seen a good deal of them," he pouted.

"You've seen what they chose you should see. You have a wife who is as
subtle as--as----" she searched her mind for a comparison that would not be
too odious.

"Just leave my wife out of it, please," said Piers.

"Come back to the question of Alayne," begged Ernest.

"She is a very subtle woman," said Meg. "And a very determined one. She
intends to stay away until Renny is thoroughly upset. She intends to
frighten him. Then when his spirit is broken, she will come back to
Jalna. She is determined to make an American husband of him."

Her uncles listened with troubled faces; Piers, with an expression of
incredulity.

"Hers has always seemed a sweet and pliable nature to me," said Ernest.
"I can never forget how she returned to nurse Eden--after the way he had
treated her!"

This was more than Meg could bear. She rose from Piers's knee and began
to pace the floor, clutching her negligee at the breast. "Oh, how
credulous men are!" she exclaimed. "How tired I am of hearing of her
self-sacrifice; even Patty would be sceptical of that, I think. No,
Alayne did not come back for Eden's sake. She came back to capture
Renny. And she captured him. Now she has set about making him over."

"I admire her courage," said Piers.

Nicholas asked--"What about Mrs. Lebraux, Meggie? What do you think of
her?"

"She's a dear creature! What a life she has had! And how brave she is!
There would have been a wife for Renny. And he adores little Pauline."

It was all very puzzling. When Meg and Piers were gone the brothers sat
for a long while trying to piece together the various information they
had gleaned, trying to discover what might be done.

In the evening Nicholas found himself alone with Renny. He said:

"I'm very much disappointed not to find Alayne here. I had no idea her
visit would be such a long one."

He had a feeling that Renny stiffened, that a wary look had come into
his eyes, as though he realised that his affairs were the subject of
warm conjecture in the household.

"Miss Archer is Alayne's only relative," he said gravely. "She could not
leave her until her affairs are in order and some sort of companion got
for her." As though by an effort, he turned his gaze to Nicholas's face
and looked steadily into his eyes.

"I have wondered sometimes," Nicholas went on, "if it would be better if
you and Alayne had not quite so many of your family about you. It
doesn't suit everyone, you know, to be mixed up together in the way we
are accustomed to. Alayne's life must have been singularly quiet. I
can't help wondering if the presence of all your people about her may
not be rather overpowering."

"She's never hinted at anything of the sort."

"She's an unusual woman then. I don't want you to be afraid of hurting
my feelings. Has she never said that she wished she could see more of
you without so many of us about?"

"Never that I can remember. I think Alayne is happy. That is, as happy
as it's possible for me to make a woman of her sort. I know there's a
great lack in me. But she'll get used to me, I think."

"I think you should go down to see her. I'm sure Miss Archer would like
to meet you."

"No! She disapproved of our marriage."

"I am sure she would be charming to you. I think you ought to fetch
Alayne. A woman likes these attentions. I made a mess of my own
marriage, Renny. I'm in a position to give advice."

"What have they been saying to you, Uncle Nick? There is nothing to
worry about. When Alayne's visit is over she will come back."

Nicholas longed to continue his persuasions, but something in Renny's
face forbade him. He looked on the point of leaping to his high horse.
Either he had set his face against interference in his affairs or he was
simply, as Piers had said, unaware of their precarious condition.
Perhaps he was right and the others wrong! Perhaps there was nothing to
worry about. Nicholas made up his mind to one thing however. He would
write to Alayne and sound her on the subject of her return. He missed
her presence in the house. She had brought something different into it
to which he had become accustomed--her dignity, her interest in the
affairs of the world, her half-sad gaiety.




                                  XXV


                            ALAYNE AND LOVE

Miss Archer and Alayne sat in the charming little living room of the
house on the Hudson, surrounded by a bright coloured litter of folders
advertising a world tour. Outside there was a raw wind, but in the room
the gently sizzling radiator diffused a comforting warmth, and the vivid
illustrations of the folders lent a touch of the exotic to the somewhat
austere effect of the neutral tinted hangings and the black dresses of
the women.

Alayne did not approve of the custom of wearing mourning, but Miss
Archer was old-fashioned and insisted that she should. The black
accentuated the pallor of her face, the fairness of her smooth hair. It
intensified too the shadows under her eyes and the compressed line of
her lips. She sat regarding her aunt with wonder.

For Miss Archer, after the first prostration of grief over the loss of
her sister, had risen most astonishingly to the call of the world from
which Miss Helen's delicacy had so long shut her off. First it had been
the car. Then excursions in it, farther and farther afield. Visits to
New York to view exhibitions of pictures by very modern young painters,
over which she was unfailingly enthusiastic, for, though conventional in
her life, she prided herself on being broad-minded, abreast of the
times. No painter, no composer of modern music, scarcely a novelist,
could shock her. But her conventional soul had received a shock by
Alayne's marriage to Renny. She had taken to Eden at first sight. His
air of deference to her, his poetry, the beauty of his person had
charmed her. The breaking of that union had been a disaster. But she had
heard nothing of Renny that had drawn her to him. His photograph had, in
truth, repelled her. When by signs, rather than by words, she became
cognisant of a breach between Alayne and him, she felt gratitude to the
Good which she was convinced guided mortal affairs, and set about the
planning of a world tour.

She had secured congenial companions in a professor of economics and his
wife, old friends of hers and of Alayne's father. She sat now in the
clear light from the electric lamp examining a fresh supply of
"literature" concerning a tour which went round the other way from the
last. She was now puzzled as to which one they should take. There
remained in her mind only the question of whether they should turn to
the right or to the left, both ways leading inevitably back to the house
on the Hudson. Professor and Mrs. Card did not seem to care much which
way they went so long as they went. Alayne too left the choice in Miss
Archer's hands.

She sat there now in pleasurable indecision, her abundant white hair
smoothly coiled, her large face, with its almost transparent pallor,
alert and somewhat excited. Alayne sat watching her, comparing her in
her mind to Augusta. Opposed to Miss Archer's indeterminate nose and
gentle mouth she pictured Augusta's beak, the majestic curve of her
nostril into her lip. Opposed to Miss Archer's white hair and
transparent pallor, Augusta's crown of magenta-tinted black, her sallow,
speckled skin. She recalled the complications of Augusta's dress, the
beads, pins, brooches, and bracelets. In Alayne's mind she compared
unfavourably with Miss Archer, and yet there was something about Augusta
one could never forget. She remembered how Augusta had shed tears at her
wedding in the church at Nymet Crews. What would Augusta think if she
knew the turn things had taken? She thought of Professor Card and the
intimate information concerning all they saw on the trip that would be
diffused from him. She thought of the never-failing curiosity with which
he and Mrs. Card and Miss Archer would view these strange lands, the
pleasant curiosity they would feel about all on board. She thought of
Nicholas home at Jalna again, his gouty leg propped on an ottoman while
he introduced, by sips, into his system, more of that which had produced
the gout. He and Ernest would have much to say of their trip, but it
would be familiar gossip of people and things they knew. That was one of
the striking things about the Whiteoaks. They lacked curiosity about
things that did not concern themselves. Their own life, the life of the
family, that was the important thing and they would have carried it with
them round the world. If they could have been introduced into this room,
she thought, with her aunt and Professor and Mrs. Card, all the
curiosity, the eagerness would have been on one side. Augusta would have
suggested a game of whist. Renny would perhaps have tried to sell the
professor a horse.... Oh, why had she thought of him! For weeks she had
scarcely allowed the thought of him to trouble her, now it came in a
swift feverish rush making her feel stifled in the little room, sickened
by the sight of the gaily coloured folders.

Miss Archer was saying--"Leaving the Red Sea we pass through the Strait
of Babel-mandeb.... Does not the very name thrill you? I can reach a
peculiar state almost bordering on hallucination by the mere repetition
of the name.... And _Penang_.... Doesn't it make you feel as though you
were losing your very identity when you say _Penang_? I am so thankful
that, even with age and all the ups and downs of life, I have never
gotten over my enthusiasms." Her clear grey eyes beamed into Alayne's.
She noticed the dark shadows under them, and took her hand and pressed
it close.

"You have been so wonderfully good to me through all this time of
trouble, dear Alayne. Now I must think of you, instead of myself. You
are not looking as well as you should. But this trip will be highly
beneficial, it will bring the colour to your cheeks.... Just close your
eyes and visualise you and me riding in a rickshaw.... Or in the bazaars
of Cairo.... Watching the sunset at Penang.... My mind will fly back to
Penang!" The pressure on Alayne's hand became firmer. "You are happier,
dear, aren't you? I love you too well not to have been aware of your
unhappiness. But, day by day, I see a look of reassurance coming back
into your eyes. Am I not right?"

Alayne nodded, clasping her fingers about those of Miss Archer, who
continued:

"We all make mistakes in our lives. You have inherited your father's
capacity for self-analysis. I am afraid that you are reproaching
yourself for something."

"No, no.... I am just drifting."

"Alayne, cannot you confide in me? I do not urge it, but it would make
me so happy."

"There is nothing to confide. We cannot get on together. That is all."

"Must you see him--before we set out on our trip?"

"No. Not necessarily."

"But you write to him?" Miss Archer's clear mind could not reconcile
itself to such a situation, but she clung with tenacity to the hope of a
disclosure of feeling.

"Yes. Commonplace notes.... To keep the family from guessing."

"And he replies?"

"Yes. In the same tone."

"Oh, he has failed you in your need for understanding: I feel that."

"Perhaps.... We are just--not suited. He possibly thinks that I have
failed him."

"But your love for him is--quite gone?"

Alayne withdrew her hand and rose with a gesture of irritation. She went
to the window and looked out into the rain. "There is no use in my
trying to explain my feelings for him. Or in trying to describe him to
you. He is like no one you know. He is like no one else. I shall never
be the same again after having lived with him. I couldn't make you
understand.... If I could think of a comparison ... well, this, we'll
say.... The ground that is torn open by an earthquake will close
together again--but its formation will be different. It will not be as it
was before."

"He must be a very peculiar man. From what I have heard of the family I
feel that they are the victims of strange complexes and frustrations."
Her ingenuous face was alight with the congenial task of psychological
analysis.

Alayne looked blank. She scarcely seemed to hear Miss Archer. Then she
said:

"The spiritual and the animal are so closely connected in him. They
can't be separated. One would just have to take him as he is.
Accommodate oneself ... accommodate is a mild word for what I mean....
But it's just that. The animal and spiritual in him...."

Miss Archer drew back. She made an almost repelling gesture toward
Alayne. Little ripples of discomfort broke the tranquillity of her
smooth face as the falling of a stone disturbs a placid pool.

"Don't, Alayne, please," she said. "It makes me shudder to think what
you must have been through." Then she moved quickly to Alayne's side and
put her arm about her. "It will all come right! I know it will. What we
both need is to view our lives from a long way off. Utterly detached, in
another hemisphere. Then we shall see the truth without morbidity
or--dreadful remembrances."

Alayne embraced her, laying her cheek against the shining white hair,
inhaling the delicate scent from her small fastidious person.

While they stood so linked, a sedan car stopped before the door.
Rosamond Trent alighted from it and advanced energetically toward the
porch. Inside she greeted them enthusiastically. Alayne thought for the
hundredth time that no one she knew wore such becoming hats as Miss
Trent.

She drew off her gloves and asked if she might smoke a cigarette. Miss
Archer always kept a silver box filled with a good brand for visitors,
though she inwardly deplored every puff of smoke in the air and crumb of
ash on the rug. Rosamond Trent espied the S.S. folders.

"Heavens, how thrilling!" she exclaimed, picking one up and examining
the picture of a group sporting in a swimming pool. "How these bring
back my own trip round the world!" For it was she who had really put the
idea into Miss Archer's head. "Hong-Kong--Honolulu--Colombo--Penang----"

Miss Archer caught her hand and held it. "I knew she'd say it!" she
laughed. "Miss Trent, just before you came in, Alayne and I were saying
how hallucinated the word Penang makes us feel. We actually see
something that is not present."

Miss Trent glanced shrewdly at her friend. "Alayne looks it," she said.

They discussed the trip for a while, then Miss Archer said:

"I am just going to leave you two together while I run across to
Professor Card's. I want to get a new book on the East that he has
promised me."

They saw her briskly cross the lawns under an umbrella. They sank back
in the relaxation of an old intimacy.

"Well," said Rosamond Trent, through the cloud of smoke she always
achieved when smoking. "I'm back in the advertising business again. I
enjoy it too, though it was hard to give up the antiques after such a
marvellous start. If it hadn't been for the Wall Street crash I'd soon
have had a grand business. I suppose you are still hanging on to your
stock, Alayne?"

"Yes. I'm glad Aunt Harriet doesn't know how much of Aunt Helen's money
I have had to pay out to hold on."

"Just be thankful you had it to fall back on! I haven't a doubt that it
will all come right."

Alayne smiled faintly. She could not feel very cheerful over the affair,
remembering that she had used her influence for rather than against
Finch's investing, and that her friend had borrowed ten thousand dollars
from him which he was not likely to see again.

In her dismay at the financial crash Rosamond Trent had told Alayne of
the loan from Finch. Now, guessing Alayne's doubts, from the dubious
droop of her mouth, she wished she had not been such a fool as to
confess. She ejaculated with a sweep of the hand. "I will work these
fingers to the bone to pay back every cent I owe!" She glared at her
plump, manicured fingers as though she already saw them stripped of
flesh.

At the extravagance of the word and the gesture that accompanied them
Alayne felt an access of irritation. She had always thought of Rosamond
as a creature of simple sincerity--a very real person. Now she seemed
suddenly unreal--the reflection of an artificial life. Her air of
knowingness, her obvious assurance that she was living in the very core
of the world, were of the stuff of self-delusion. And she herself had
brought Rosamond into touch with Finch. It was she who had been at the
bottom of Finch's losses in the New York stock market--first by her
example, then by her friend's borrowing from him. Whether or not Finch
was holding his stock she did not know. She had written to him asking,
but no answer had come. She had been deeply fond of Finch. Now she felt
that she could not hold him, could not hold him any more than she could
hold any Whiteoak. They could give one no comfort, they could not be
held--but how real they were!

She felt stifled in the little room. Rosamond's voice came from a long
way off. She was saying:

"You mustn't mind me speaking plainly, Alayne. But we have no secrets
from each other, have we? You know positively all there is to know about
my life. Now I can sense the fact that you are no more satisfied in this
marriage than in your first. You need new scenes to take your mind off
it. Many a time I've wondered how you endured life so far from all that
makes it worth while."

Alayne did not answer. She let her friend talk on and on. Rosamond was
thinking, she knew, that her poor heart was too full for words. Miss
Archer came back, accompanied by Professor and Mrs. Card. The air
bristled with information about the trip. Miss Archer had out her Trip
Abroad book and wrote down numerous addresses and helpful hints.

When, at last, she was sitting alone in the living room, it was time for
bed and her head ached dreadfully. She was enveloped in a cloak of
depression beyond anything she had ever experienced.... There was none
of the active pain of grief. There was no anger to kindle it. There was
only this choking sense of aloneness. She thought of the projected trip
with shrinking. How could she ever, she asked herself, have thought of
it otherwise? The company, in which she was preparing to cast herself
for six months, now was presented to her as austere and even
desiccated.... And, at the end of the six months, what? She now had an
income on which she could live. The world appeared to her as a pallid
waste. What had happened to her? Only a week ago she had enjoyed a
meeting of the women's club. But--had she enjoyed it? Could the paltry
satisfaction of discussing world affairs with others, no wiser than
herself, be called enjoyment? She remembered expressions of enjoyment
she had caught on the faces of Piers, Pheasant, Renny, and even Finch.
She thought of Eden's joy in certain things. She remembered the joy she
had had in his poetry. She felt that she had had a wide emotional
experience in her life. She felt, with a sudden pang, that her response
to it, after the first rush of feeling, had been Puritanical and
prudish!

For the first time in her life she directed sneering thoughts towards
herself. In her life at Jalna she had always been considering whether or
not things were congenial to her. When she had married Renny she had
known exactly what life, there, was. At the time of her marriage the
thought of changing that life or of altering Renny's habits had not even
occurred to her. She had rushed into his arms her own outspread, but
after the first embraces she had held him from her scrutinising him,
being only too ready to see his faults.... And Wakefield! From feeling
tenderness toward him, she had come to feel resentment, and why? Because
Renny had still continued to care for him as he had done before their
marriage. And the servants! Why had she allowed their eccentricities to
cloud her day. The leopard could no more change his spots than the
Wragges their habits. All her life she had extolled the virtue of
moderation, self-control. Yet she had plunged, with never a backward
glance, into a family where there was little of either.

If he had not given her more of his time, why had she not gone in search
of him as Pheasant went in search of Piers? Why had she not followed him
to his stables and stood by his side dumb in admiration of the beauties
of his beasts? If her clothes had smelled of the stables as well as his
perhaps she would have become impervious to that odour. If she had
tramped about with him in the mud she might not have counted his muddy
footsteps on the rug. Good God, those same rugs had been lying on the
floors of Jalna before she was born! Mrs. Wragge, or others of her sort,
had cracked the glazing on the dishes years ago. Why try to remedy it?
What matter if Renny threw burnt matches on the floor or old Ben napped
on her silk bedspread or Mooey threw her talcum on his head? Surely she
was not such a fool as to expect her life with Renny to pass in an
unbroken rhythm of joy! She could not expect continued intimate contact
with a soul so aloof and shy as his. "For he is of finer stuff than I,"
she thought in her heart.

If only she might live the past year over again! Her discipline of
herself would have produced some richer fruit than a trip round the
world with Miss Archer and the Cards. Why could not she and Renny give
shapely expression to the best that was in them? What were his thoughts
about it all? His brief letters told her nothing, but then she had heard
him say that he had never written a letter of more than six lines in his
life. And she had never told him that she considered a separation in so
many words. It was possible that he thought that she had gone away in
anger because of what he had said of her share in the killing of Barney.
He had spoken bitterly, far too tragically, she had thought, for any man
to speak of the death of a dog. But he was like that, and she had known
he was like that and she should have comforted him. If one were to get
on with him, one must bear with him and comfort him, for his blood was
three-fourths Celtic. As against this, hers was Anglo-Saxon with a
strong Teutonic strain.

In the midst of her regrets came the thought that perhaps it was well
that she had cast loose from Jalna when she did and had come to the
ordered domesticity of her aunt's house. From here she was able to look
back on the Whiteoaks and see them as she never could in their midst.
During all these weeks she had been dreaming, imagining that she could
find tranquillity in sinking back into the subdued pattern of her old
life. Now she was broad awake. That pattern appeared to her not only
subdued but colourless, its background flimsy.

She went to the window and flung it open. The damp night air swept in.
It was heavy with the smell of wet earth, dead leaves. It swept down
from the north bearing the scent of the dead leaves of Jalna.... Oh, if
she might have a child of Renny's! If, when the new leaves thrust out,
she too might quicken!

What had she been doing? Casting sweet love from her. Trying to create
chill order in her life out of the entanglements of desire.... Out of
the darkness his face appeared before her and she felt faint with
longing to see him in the flesh.

At breakfast she told Miss Archer that it was necessary for her to
return to Jalna before she could make final arrangements for the trip.
She had dreaded her aunt's questioning at this announcement, but she
need not have dreaded it. Miss Archer was existing in such a daze of
preparation, such an enchantment of anticipation, that nothing surprised
her.

She saw Alayne depart that evening with confident cheerfulness.

Alayne had not sent word that she was coming. She did not quite know how
she was to get to Jalna. She hoped that by now the Vaughans would have
left the house. From Pheasant she had learned of their prolonged visit.
But, even if they were not gone--well, she must see Renny--that was all
there was to it.

She was, at times, conscious that her headache had not left her. For
three days now it had been thudding against the back of her neck. Its
thudding mingled with the throbbing of the train. Sometimes she quite
forgot it in the feverish activity of her brain. She put up her blind
and looked out into the new day. Noticed how white and graceful her hand
and arm were. She had not considered her physical being for weeks. She
was surprised to see snow lying in the furrows of the fields and
feathering the shrubs alongside the track. She saw workmen's cottages
with lighted windows and fowls emerging from their coops. An old grey
horse stood in a snowy field, the wind tossing his long grey mane. Soon
they passed through a manufacturing town and she saw a crowd of
foreign-looking workmen going toward the factories. The train did not
stop there but rushed through, giving her just a glimpse of its black
sordidness and the brightness of the rising sun touching nothing but the
gilt cross on the church.

While she was at breakfast they crossed the border and here there was
more snow, but it was soft snow and was soon wet under the sun. The air
was clear and bright, but quick-moving clouds cast their shadows on the
fields. She sat in her seat with her things about her while the train
sped past Weddell's, the station nearest Jalna. She saw Wright in the
new car waiting for the barrier to be raised so that he might cross the
track. The wholesome, kind look of him pleased her. Why, this little
village looked like home!

She had secured a porter and was waiting for a taxi when her attention
was caught by three men who were getting into a shabby car. Her heart
missed a beat, seemed to turn in her breast when she saw that one of
them was Renny. His companions were Crowdy and Chase. She took a few
hurried steps toward him and called his name. In the chill light faces
looked wan. All but Renny's. More than ever his looked fierce and
highly-coloured. He took off his hat and came toward her laughing in
delighted surprise. She had forgotten how red his hair was, how red his
face, how tall and thin and sharp and strong he was.

If he had been angry at her when she left, had brooded on what he
thought her bad behaviour toward him, and kept his heart shut against
her, he forgot all this when he saw her standing there in the wan light,
her face pale with blue shadows beneath the eyes, her hair bright
beneath her close-fitting black hat. He noticed at once that she had
bought herself a new fur scarf. It set her off wonderfully, he thought.

They stood facing each other, she in tremulous wildness, he in amazed
gratification.

"But why," he demanded, "didn't you write?"

"I only made up my mind at the last minute."

"But you could have telegraphed."

"I couldn't make up my mind to that."

"Oh, that mind of yours!" he laughed. "You're always making it up or not
being able to make it up, aren't you?"

She drew close to him. She asked, in a choking voice--"Are you glad I've
come?"

"What a question!"

"Oh, if only we could ever be alone! What are those dreadful men doing
here with you?"

"We were shipping some horses. I've been in town overnight. I must get
rid of that taxi for you. What luck that I should be here with the car!
Crowdy and Chase must come with us, though. But they live just outside
the city. I'll drop them there."

The two friends came forward looking rather crestfallen. Chase
vouchsafed no more than a stiff bow, but Crowdy soon recovered himself
and beamed at her. Somehow her luggage was stowed in the car. She was in
the seat beside Renny. She was glad it was the old car--muddy, with
ill-fitting curtains, rattling as though this must surely be its last
trip. It had been just as it was now when she had first ridden in it,
five years ago. In it Renny had first spoken of his passion for her. She
recalled his words. They had been few and his tone almost matter of
fact. It had been at night and it had rained. Neither had had any hope
that they could come together. Now it was morning. Rain was beginning to
fall. They were together, together, yes, together....

She could not understand herself, yet now she could understand him. She
could not understand why it was that she did not mind the presence of
Crowdy and Chase in the car. Yet she could sympathise with his feeling
for them. They were real. That was it. They were as real as this raw
wind that made the curtains flap. They were as real as Rosamond Trent
and Professor and Mrs. Card had become unreal to her. She had changed.
She was becoming a new person. It had been the birth-pangs of this new
self that had torn her.

Renny asked her questions about her life with Miss Archer. He seemed to
think that it was the natural and proper thing that she should have made
a long stay with her. He did not reproach her with the brusqueness of
her letters, with her writing so seldom to him. Her heart turned with
joy as she slid her eyes toward him.... He reached for the cloth he kept
for the purpose and wiped the wind shield.

The lake was trembling in the wind. The waves were a light, translucent
green. They buffeted each other like rowdies, knocking the caps of foam
from each other's heads.

Gulls swooped and sank to the waves and rose again, whimpering. When the
car was stopped for Crowdy and Chase to alight she heard the gulls'
whimpering.

Chase bowed and backed away from the kerb, but Crowdy drew close to her.
He extended his left hand and, on its palm, with the forefinger of the
right, made cabalistic signs. His shrewd little eyes indicated Renny. He
said:

"You have a fine husband, Mrs. Whiteoak. None better. Thoroughbred."

Alayne put out her hand to shake his. They gazed steadfastly into each
other's eyes, she and the horse-dealer. She could picture the hideous
houses on hideous suburban streets into which he and Chase would
disappear.

As they drove on again Renny's face wore a pleased smile at her
magnanimity toward his friends. She found that her headache had quite
gone, but it, combined with a sleepless night, had left her unutterably
tired. She let her weight rest against Renny's shoulder and relaxed as
she had not relaxed for months. Renny talked on and on about the horses
they had been shipping that morning.

The heavy branches of the evergreens along the drive seemed to have
extended since she had last seen them. They swept the windows of the
car, drenching them. After the house on the Hudson this old red brick
one looked long and rambling. There was a covering of wet snow on the
steps of the porch and on the snow footprints of dogs. He carried her
things on to the porch. She asked suddenly:

"Were you surprised?"

"A little. Not much. I was expecting you any day." But there was a
shyness in his eyes. After a quick glance at her he opened the door and
they went into the hall.

It was empty save for old Ben curled up before the stove. He rose,
stretched, and came toward her wagging his bobbed tail. If they had had
differences he had forgotten them. Now was her time to show that she too
could be generous. As he raised himself, with his paws against her side,
she put her arms about him as she had never done to a dog before.

Nicholas had been reading in the sitting-room. He came out, pulling off
his spectacles as he came. He kissed her and exclaimed:

"My dear Alayne, how glad I am to see you! But you could not have got my
letter. It was only posted yesterday. I had been intending to write you
for a fortnight, but you know how bad I am at writing letters." He
scrutinised her from under his shaggy brows, trying to pierce the
wherefore of her coming. He had never untangled the wherefore of her
going.

Ernest came, kissed her, and led her into the sitting-room. "But, dear
Alayne, how pale and cold and tired you look! We must have some wine and
a biscuit for you. I will get it myself." He hastened to the
dining-room.

"Thank God," rumbled Nicholas in an undertone, "that you're come!
Otherwise, I don't know when we should have been rid of the Vaughans.
Their tenants are gone but here they stick, just because it's so
comfortable. And we have missed you dreadfully for yourself, my dear!"

As she was sipping her wine Meg came in leaning on Renny's arm. In the
hall he had pressed her arm authoritatively: "Meggie, be nice to Alayne
or I won't love you!"

She had delayed their entry long enough to say--"Nice to Alayne! As
though I had ever been anything else! Surely Alayne will be nice to me
when she sees my weak state."

Alayne rose and looked into Meg's flushed face. "Oh, Meggie," she said.
"How nice that you are able to be about again! But I see that you are
very weak."

Meg advanced and kissed her. "Yes, indeed I am! If only I had your
strength! To be able to eat anything, at any time, as you do! I have no
appetite. You have no idea what I've been through." Renny lowered her
into a chair beside Alayne and stood looking down at them with old
Adeline's very grin of delight in their reunion.

Meg laid her soft white hand on Alayne's knee. "When we are alone I must
tell you all about it. But I am afraid you will be upset when you hear
that I have your room."

"Not at all," Alayne assured her, though she would have given almost
anything to have had her own bed to lie down in. "I will take Finch's
room while you are here. You must not hurry away because of my coming."

Nicholas glared at her. "The ceiling in Finch's room leaks badly," he
said. "It has been leaking for a long time. I'm afraid you won't be
comfortable there." He added testily, turning toward Renny--"I don't like
to see the place going to rack and ruin."

Renny went and began to poke the fire as he always did when repairs were
mentioned.

Wragge appeared at Alayne's side, with the decanter on a tray. "May I
give you some more of the sherry, ma'am?" he asked.

"Yes, a little." She watched him as he poured the wine with his air of
mingled humility and impudence.

He said--"It's a great pleasure to see you 'ome again, ma'am. I hope you
don't mind me saying so."

Wakefield was in the doorway. He did not come forward, but stood looking
gravely at her. She held out her hand. She noticed that he had grown
since she had last seen him.

"Wake, aren't you coming to kiss me?"

He advanced then and touched her cheek with his lips.

Renny said--"I haven't seen him as fit in a long while as he is just
now."

Maurice, Pheasant, and Piers came in, followed by the two little ones,
who clambered at once to Alayne's lap and the arm of her chair. There
they were, all together in one room, as they liked to be, in the heat of
intimacy, all barriers down. Once more in their midst, Alayne saw them
as a crowded group in a picture, high-coloured, vigorous, resistant to
change.... On the centre table stood a vase filled with dahlias. There
were as many as the vase could hold. Bronze, rust-coloured, orange, and
scarlet; they were like the Whiteoaks, she thought, in their bold yet
crowded commingling.

Meg saw her looking at the flowers. "Aren't they lovely?" she asked. "Do
you know, I have never been without flowers since my illness." She drew
Patience from Alayne's knee. "You must not stroke Auntie Alayne's fur,
Baby. Stand up nicely and let her hear you say your pretty new piece.
Stand beside her, Mooey."

She placed the infants side by side, facing Alayne.

Without hesitation Patience grasped Mooey's hand and recited:

    "Step out, baby cousin,
    Show your feet so small;
        Never fear
        While Patty's near,
    Lest you have a fall."

Mooey pulled away his hand. "Oh hell," he said, "I'm not f'ightened!"

                  *       *       *       *       *

At last she was up in Finch's room. She was back under the roof of
Jalna. The roof leaked into the basin by the foot of the bed. There was
a smell of wet plaster, Finch's things were about....

Renny came running up the stairs. He came in. He looked about. "You will
be quite cosy here," he said.

She came to him. "Renny," she said with an effort, "I am so sorry about
your dog. It was cruel that it should have been killed unnecessarily."

For a second there was a look of shrinking in his eyes. Then he
exclaimed:

"You should see how Cora's colt is developing! It is growing into the
most charming filly you ever saw."

"And Cora.... Is she well?"

"Fit as can be! She has a heart of gold that mare!"




                                  XXVI


                                 FINCH

Finch was striding along a wet, winding road in the direction of his
aunt's house. He had been walking all morning and he was tired, but he
moved with the excited energy that possessed him when he walked, in
opposition to the enervation he felt when indoors. He carried the stick
to which he had become accustomed at the time of his strained ankle,
swinging it and sometimes poking at things in the hedge with it. It had
been a period of extraordinary gales and floods. Every now and again he
came upon a fallen tree or a group of men removing one from the road
across which it had been blown. A brimming stream hurried along the
ditch, twisting and turning among the grasses and gurgling happily.
Where the sky was not covered by smoke-coloured clouds, it showed a
brilliant and tranquil blue as of spring-time, though it was December.
The hedges were a rich brown, against which the glossy clumps of holly
stood out, with here and there a holly tree rising in berried
brightness. Gusts of wind flapped against his face, wet and scentless,
except when he passed a rick from which a man was cutting trusses of
hay. Then the sweet smell of the hay came to him like an exhalation of
summer. Above a ploughed field lapwings were flying in wide circles,
uttering their cries that ranged from tender plaintiveness to a wild
moaning.

He found one dead by the side of the road. It must have flown against
the telegraph wires. He picked it up. It was still warm. The sheen on
the dark green of its back was not dulled, but its long crest was moist
and limp. He turned it over, letting it lie on his palms, showing its
breast plump as a pigeon's, its white throat, and cinnamon under-tail
feathers. Not again would it fly across the fields uttering that cry
which moves the heart of the lonely walker. Its fellows cared nothing as
they ran along the wind, now dark above the reddish loam, now, as they
turned broadside, exposing their white underparts. If he had not come
along, there would have been no one to notice its death.

He stood in the ditch, his stick hooked over his wrist, holding the
bird. He would absorb the last of its warmth into his own body. Its
vitality, its song, should pass into him, and he would hold it so while
he lived. Its spark should not be lost.

"You shall not die, lapwing," he said. "You shall live in me. In the
spring you shall cry to your mate through me in my music."

The eyes of the lapwing, which had been shut when he picked it up, now
opened, and the glazed eyeballs stared up at him. Out of its long, sharp
beak he fancied he heard these words:

"Clodhopper! Do you think I can live in you? I who am a hen lapwing! Can
you make the nest on the earth for me? Can you carry my eggs in your
body until the shell is just the right shade of greenish brown, with
just so many specks for concealment? Can you place them point to point?
Can you warm them to life? Feed them?"

"They shall live in my music," answered Finch.

"The flight, the swooping, the crying of my younglets live in your
music?"

"Yes."

"What of the tens of thousands of worms they and I should have
devoured?"

"The worms shall die in my music."

"Birds fly and worms die in your music! Never can you compose three bars
as beautiful as my tremulous and variable notes. Outcast of your own
flock, do not imagine that you can steal virtue from me! My song turns
to dust in my throat. My tongue cleaves to my beak. My eggs are silent
notes that never can be touched to life."

He pressed her in his hands and she felt cold. A motor-car passed,
spattering him with mud.

He hastened along a lane between high banks towards a cottage where a
thatcher lived. By the cottage there was a duck-pond, on the dark,
ice-cold water of which several ducks and a drake were swimming. In the
middle of the pond stood the thatcher's wife, red-cheeked, with a shock
of coarse black hair. She wore high leather boots, from which she was
scrubbing the mud with a corn broom.

Finch went to the edge of the pond and said:

"Good morning, Mrs. Rush. Will you please lend me your trowel? I want to
bury this bird. I found it dead in a ditch by Ram's Close."

"Good morning, sir. What, a peewit? He'em dead sure enough! They pore
creatures don't watch proper where they be flyin'. They'm half-mazed
with their own hurry-scurry. Where be 'ee goin' to bury un, sir?"

Finch hesitated. "I scarcely know.... Just here, by your pond, if you
don't mind.... But you mustn't hurry to fetch the trowel."

He stood watching her as she scrubbed her boots with the broom, noticing
how the dark water crept in between the laces. When she had finished he
followed her to the cottage, against one end of which bundles of faggots
were piled to the thatch, and against the other was a shippen, from
where came the lowing of a cow.

As he strode down the road, carrying the trowel and the lapwing, an idea
came to him. He would bury the lapwing by the side of Ralph Hart.... Why
should not the dead bird bear the dead boy company? He gloated over the
thought of their being buried side by side, as over a strain of
music.... Then a doubt of his own sanity assailed him for a moment, but
he put it from him.... He was sane enough, he was sure of that. But his
mind was the playground of queer sensations. What in life would bring
him peace?

As he descended the steep hill into the village he had a feeling of
shame at what he was doing. He hid the lapwing under his coat and
endeavoured to conceal the trowel.

The children were just let out of school. They passed him, running in
laughing groups, their cheeks glowing, their stout legs purple from
cold. He turned down the narrow street that led to the churchyard. He
avoided the sexton, who was digging a grave, and slipped behind the
gravestones to the distant corner where Ralph lay. From here was a noble
view of the moors. The sun sent his spears of light through broken
clouds, striking the humped shoulders of the tors. A sodden wreath of
everlastings lay on Ralph's grave, but it was marked by no stone. Finch
dug a hole close beside it and laid the lapwing there, smoothing its
feathers before he replaced the turf. He straightened himself then,
stared up into the sky and across the moor with a dazed look. He felt
that life was as mysterious to him, as non-understandable, as when he
had emerged from the shelter of his mother's womb.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Since the departure of his uncles, he and Augusta had seen less and less
of the pair at the lodge. Eden had shown a desire to bring Minny to The
Hall now that there was more room, but Augusta had had enough of
company. Her manner became discouraging, even chilly. She felt herself
tired out and she relaxed, finding the presence of Finch so congenial to
her that she wished he might stay indefinitely. Finch, in truth, was
leading a double life. In the presence of Augusta he was apparently
cheerful, interested in all the small doings of neighbours and villagers
that were the chief subject of her conversation at Nymet Crews. When a
letter came from home he was almost painfully eager to hear news of the
family. But no one wrote to him and he wrote to no one.... When he was
alone he relapsed into a state of deep melancholy, out of which he was
only roused by some such incident as the finding of the lapwing. Then he
was roused to a state bordering on exaltation.

The suicide of Ralph Hart, coming at a time when his nerves were swept
by the storm of his hopeless love for Sarah, was a shock from which they
were in no haste to readjust themselves.

He could not play the piano in the evening to Augusta without becoming
unstrung. He would be forced to stop in order to wipe away the sweat
that trickled down his forehead and sprang out on his palms. He would
offer a stammered apology, avoiding Augusta's calm gaze. She would say
then--"I think we have had enough music for to-night, dear. I am rather
tired, and I can see that you are."

She saw more than he imagined she did. She thought that, in his present
state, he was better off with her than in his own home. He was a
fanciful boy and, she guessed, had had some sort of spiritual upset in
connection with his cousin. She could not fail to notice Finch's
repulsion from her, his tendency to sneer at her. Arthur had sent
photographs of himself and Sarah taken in Paris. Augusta was for having
them framed at once, but Finch exclaimed--"For heaven's sake, Aunt, don't
force me to see that smug-looking pair every time I raise my eyes!
Please wait till I am gone!"

Ellen told her mistress that she had found rosemary strewn over the
floor of Finch's room and that sometimes he stole out of the house at
daybreak. Augusta stared at her. "We will not worry about that, Ellen,"
she said. "Rosemary is quite clean and easily swept up. And, so long as
Mr. Finch is stealing out at that hour and not stealing in, I have no
cause for anxiety." But she was anxious. She suggested that he go to
London or Leipzig to continue the study of music.

"Like this?" he exclaimed. And, as though at his bidding, his nerves had
begun to quiver, and she had been made still more anxious by the sight
of him standing trembling before her, with nothing whatever to tremble
at.

His appetite reassured her. He was always hungry, as he had ever been.
Mutton, winter greens, suet pudding were swept clean from his plate and,
if a dish of nuts and raisins were carried to the drawing-room he was
sure to finish them. Yet he grew thinner.

He disliked meeting people and would skulk out of reach when there were
callers. He had avoided Eden and Minny for weeks. When he saw them in
the distance on his walks he turned down a lane or climbed a stile to
escape. He went to and from the house by the back entrance to avoid
passing the lodge.

To-day, however, the clock in the church tower struck the three-quarter
hour as he left the village. He would be late for lunch unless he went
by the drive. Augusta could forgive anything but unpunctuality at meals.
It had never been a failing of the Whiteoaks. He made up his mind, after
several hesitations and turnings away, that he must pass the lodge. He
remembered with relief that Eden and Minny were usually at table by this
hour.

As he was closing the gate cautiously so that it might not clank,
Minny's voice called to him from the porch. She came hurrying down the
flagged walk to intercept him. The wind blew the hair back from her very
white forehead which she had drawn into a pucker of anxiety. It also
blew her thin dress against her body, exposing the modulating
conformations of breast and hip and thigh.

"Oh, Finch," she called, "we're having the most awful time with our
chimneys! They smoke and smoke! I do wish you would come in and see what
a state we're in. It's a perfect shame that Eden should be so
uncomfortable."

Finch saw that she was blue with cold, yet she did not give a thought to
herself. He made as if to walk on. He said hurriedly:

"Sorry. I'm late for lunch already. Aunt Augusta is a regular martinet
about meals."

"Whatever have we done?" cried Minny angrily. "You haven't been near us
for a month! You go the other way when you see us coming!" She ran
through her little gate and caught him by the arm. In her thin-soled
high-heeled slippers she splashed through a small puddle.

He looked down into her face. "Minny, don't mind what I do! I'm a beast.
I don't know what's wrong with me but--just now--I'm not fit company for
anyone."

She patted his arm. "Poor old boy! Eden has the blue devils sometimes,
too. Thank goodness, I don't! If I did, what would become of us?"

Eden appeared in the doorway. He said loudly:

"Don't ask that fellow to come in, Minny! He thinks of no one but
himself. Let him go!"

"He's just been explaining. He is not feeling quite himself. But he
wants to come in, don't you, Finch?"

Finch turned back with her. He was surprised to see how pale Eden was.
He had dark shadows under his eyes and, as he turned petulantly away at
their approach, his shoulders were shaken by a harsh cough.

Both back and front doors of the lodge stood open. The interior was
dense with smoke that was blown down the chimney and out of the great
fireplace with each blast. Not only was the table not yet laid for lunch
but the remains of breakfast still stood on it. In here was a chill more
damp and penetrating than that out-doors.

Eden kept his back to Finch. He stood talking in a high irritable tone
to a loutish boy with sooty face and hands.

"Can you tell me what your master's going to do when he _does_ come
back?"

Minny added--"Yes, I wish I knew how soon he can put it in order. Just
look, Finch. They've swept out all that soot!" She pointed to a
bucketful that stood on the hearth. "After he'd got that out we thought
surely the chimney would draw and Eden built up a huge fire. He was so
cold. But it was worse than ever and we can't get the fire to go out."

Eden began to put ashes on it. A descending gust sent a puff of black
smoke and a swirl of ashes over him. He backed away swearing under his
breath.

The boy stood regarding his efforts with dull interest. He kept rubbing
his ear against the corner of the mantel-shelf as a pig might scratch
itself against a gate-post. "Master'll put un in order," he observed.

"But what will he do?" asked Minny desperately.

"Put un in order."

"He's going to have a damper made," said Eden.

"Will that take long?" asked Finch.

The boy rubbed his ear with a circular movement on a corner of the
shelf. "A proper long time it'll take."

"If only the wind would fall!" cried Minny.

The youth turned his eyes heavily toward the open door. "He won't fall.
He's a master gale, he is."

Eden asked--"Do you know anything about this chimney? Has it ever done
this before?"

The youth had ceased rubbing his ear in order to comprehend a question
requiring so sharp a mental effort to answer. After weighing it
conscientiously he began again the circular movement against the shelf.
He then replied:

"He'em allus smokin' in November gales. Widow used to send for we."

"And what did you do?"

"Swept un."

A fresh cloud of smoke enveloped them.

"Look here!" cried Finch. "This will never do! You mustn't stay here.
Why, it will be the end of Eden! You'd be better out of doors."

"And it's been so damp too the last month," said Minny. She led him to
the kitchen and showed how the moisture on the wall collected into a
little runnel that trickled across the floor. Finch asked in a low
voice--"How long has he had that cough?"

"About a week."

"But you should have told me! He must get away at once."

Minny's expression became pathetic. "But how can we, Finch? It's all we
can do to make ends meet here."

"I'll attend to that."

They returned to the other room. The fire had died down. Heavy raindrops
were spattering into it. The wind too was dying. The youth had gone off
for his dinner. Eden went to the mantelshelf and began to rub his ear
against it, looking mischievously out of the sides of his eyes at Finch
and Minny.

"Us had better pip out," he said, in a sing-song. "There seems to be
nothing else left for we! 'Tis a proper failure us have made of our
life, Min."

Finch was filled with compunction because of his forgetfulness of them.
Minny was one of the bravest, sweetest girls he had ever known. Now she
was kneeling on the cold hearth, the bellows in her hands, fanning the
struggling flames. The wind had fallen.

He hurried to the house and told his aunt of the condition in the lodge.
Augusta did not, as he had expected, declare that Eden and Minny must
come to her at once. If the chimney began to smoke again there would be
time enough. But she had a hamper packed with a hot lunch and Finch
carried it excitedly to the lodge. She had put in a bottle of sherry,
too. When he arrived a fresh fire was blazing and Minny had washed up
the breakfast things. Eden was writing at one end of the long table. He
looked up eagerly at Finch.

"Here's one of the best things I've done," he exclaimed. And he read
aloud a charming lyric.

"Did you just write that this morning?" asked Finch.

"I've been working on it a week!"

Eden made no further reference to Finch's neglect of them. He allowed
his own instincts to govern his life and, except for an occasional flash
of temper, he was willing that others should do the same. If Finch
wanted to keep to himself, well--he probably needed the solitude.

Minny spread out the lamb chops and mashed potatoes, the hot apple tart
which Augusta had refused to cut into herself so that it might be
unbroken for them. The room felt hot and steamy.

After lunch they sat talking and smoking. It was arranged that they
leave for the South of France in two days. Finch would write a cheque
for Eden at once.

Now that he had been with them again he had a moment's regret that they
would be leaving. In the back of his brain, however, was a feeling of
relief that the lodge would be empty, that he could come and go as he
liked without fear of meeting them.

When they parted, Minny flung her arms about his neck and kissed him
gratefully. "What should we do without you, Finch!" she said. "You are
our guardian angel!"




                                 XXVII


                          CHRISTMAS--AND AFTER

When the lodge was shut up and Eden and Minny had left for France, Finch
resigned himself with morose satisfaction to an increasing melancholy.
The gales from the moor, the vaporous sunshine that wavered across the
tors, the deep, spongy, relaxed quiet of the intervals between gales,
combined to dissolve his resistance.

He was woken in the morning by Ellen coming into his room with a can of
hot water. She drew apart the window curtains and closed the window. She
carried a candle, and her shadow, grotesque and ponderous, leant across
the ceiling above him. It was strange to think that this sinister,
pendulous shadow belonged to the spare, upright, deprecating woman. He
watched woman and shadow over the edge of his blanket, usually
pretending to be asleep.

But sometimes he asked--"Is it a fine morning, Ellen?"

She would answer--"Oh, no, sir! It is frosty."

When he got up, he would see the sun rising, a round, red ball, and the
grass of the meadow would be white and shaggy, like an old man's beard.
The fleece of the ewes would look rosy in the thick sunlight as they
nibbled the frosty grass or raised their heads and gazed toward the gate
where the shepherd would enter. He would come at last, bending under a
truss of hay, and the ewes would lumber heavily down the sloping field
to meet him. Every week Finch could see how their girth was increasing.
He longed to see the young lambs with the sick longing of one who
expects to be underground by the next lambing season.

His body steamed as he washed himself in the cold room. Through the
window he could see the winter spinach that Ralph Hart had planted,
lusty and dark green.... Even at that early hour he would ponder on the
decay of Ralph's strong young body. He would think of the lapwing buried
beside him, think of it as uttering faint yet beautiful cries that stole
through the sodden earth, crept up through Ralph's ribs, and echoed in
his empty skull.

He thought of a process of disintegration going on in himself. He
pictured himself as, by degrees, being reduced to a vegetable growth,
unable to move from the one spot ... his legs resolving themselves into
twining roots, his arms spread into great flabby leaves outstretched on
the wet earth ... his head a huge cluster of sickly buds that would
burst, at last, into pallid nightmarish flowers....

He would sit before the piano trying to wrench from it some magic
essence that would restore him, but the piano no longer was his friend.
When he opened it the keyboard grinned up at him--the keys like white
cruel teeth. Sometimes when he was sure that he was alone the power of
playing would return to him. He would release his spirit in strong,
full-sounding harmonies. He would compose, groping his way from rhythm
to rhythm, but he could not tell whether or not what he composed were
good.

Sometimes he would sit with his arms folded on the rack dreaming of the
times when he and Sarah had played together. He would see her standing,
tall and graceful, her cheek laid against her violin. He would see the
curve of her wrist as she raised the bow. He would try to recall
minutely all their meetings, the words they had spoken. He would begin
with the first meeting, when she had come in late for tea, and proceed
with them, omitting no gesture that he could recall, to the day of her
marriage with Arthur. He would live again through the weeks by the sea,
be racked again by the increasing hunger for her, the hopelessness of
it. He would relive the scene on the cliff, when he had clasped her to
him--taken and received one passion-breeding kiss. He would set his mouth
in the form of a kiss and his lips would burn and his eyes grow
feverish. He would spring up from the piano and walk the floor. Once he
shouted--"I will have her! By God--I will!"

He pictured himself as following her to France, meeting her on the
street with Arthur, and going straight up to her with the words--"You
belong to me and you cannot deny it!" He saw himself kissing her in
front of a street full of people.

He would crouch so long before the piano indulging in these imaginings
that, when he rose, he would find himself rigid and cramped. If Augusta
looked into the room at him he would cover his face with his hands until
she had retreated. "The boy really must be a genius," she thought, "or
he would not act so queerly."

Once that he was settled in a certain position, his imagination rushing
over its usual course, overflowing like a river in spate, no part of him
must move a hair's breadth or the spell would be broken. A pain came in
his head and he took his hand from where it was in order to press it
against the spot. But when he would replace his hand he could not
remember where it had been. He tried it here, there, about his person
and the keyboard, but he could not find the right place. His hand became
enormous, a gigantic antenna waving in space, impossible to control. He
wished that he might cut it off rather than have it plague him so.

To go on dreaming of Sarah, alternately loving and hating her--he felt
that he could do this forever.

A concert for a charitable purpose was to be given in the school-house.
Augusta begged Finch to play at this concert--"just some simple little
piece," for it was not a musical neighbourhood. Yet everyone would
appreciate it so much and she was so proud of her brilliant nephew.

He could not refuse. He would play something--perhaps _Tales of
Hoffman_--which he knew so well that it would be impossible for him to
break down. Augusta's gentleness with him, her gratitude for his
agreeing to do this, made him ashamed. He prepared himself for the
concert by trying to live a more normal life in the week preceding it.
He did not wander about the lanes so much. He sat with Augusta and even
read aloud to her. Eden had left a number of books at the lodge. One of
these was a novel of student life in Munich. When Finch read the
intimate descriptions of the life toward which he had strained, of the
gathering together for the study of music of all these young people, his
heart ached with longing and despair. If only he could throw off these
shackles that held him and join his life to theirs, discover of what
stuff he was made!

Augusta could see that the book disturbed him. She said that she did not
care for it and asked him to read another. He sat up late that night and
finished it.

Every day, as the time of the concert drew nearer, the thought of
playing at it became more horrible to him. He could not sleep for
thinking of it. His nerves became so unstrung that he could not hand
Augusta a cup of tea without slopping it. At last he got out, in a
hoarse voice:

"There's no use in my trying, Auntie! If I play at that concert I shall
make an ass of myself. You'll be ashamed of me."

She gave him a penetrating glance. "Whatever am I to do with you?" she
exclaimed in despair.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, and went into the hall for his cap and coat.

She thought--"I wish Renny were here. Surely he could do something with
the boy!"

Christmas came. A time of gales and floods. Cards and presents came from
home, and a long letter from Alayne, urging him to write and tell her
all about himself. She seemed to be very happy to be back at Jalna. It
all seemed very far away to him, like a half-forgotten dream. Augusta
had bought Christmas cards for him to send, and he had mechanically
inscribed one for each member of the family.

On Christmas Eve Augusta doubted that the waits would face the gale. She
hoped very much that they would come, for Finch's sake. It would be
something quite new to him. It was a good season for holly. Thick
clusters of brilliant berries shone against the glossy branches that
Augusta and Finch had placed in vases and above pictures. They had
trimmed the windows and the mantelpieces with ivy, and lighted candles
in all the candelabra.

Finch thought of the soaking land, the drenched moor, the streaming sky,
black as a hole ... the rain flowing in rivers down the pane ... the
gale crying out in its passion.... He walked from one room to another
watching the reflections of the dancing candle-light.... He touched the
holly berries and the cold fresh ivy with his fingers.... He saw the
images of himself and his aunt in a mirror ... a woman of nearly eighty,
and a boy of twenty-one.... Both were equally unreal to him.

He went to a window and he could hear the water gurgling from the eave.
He saw a glimmer of light moving along the drive. It was possible to
make out a little group of figures struggling against the gale. They
stopped before the door.

He called to Augusta and they stood together at the window. The blurred
gleam from an electric torch was directed at a piece of music held by
one of the waits. The others clustered close, their streaming faces
peering at the music. In the feeble light their faces were without
bodies. They clustered together like wet berries on a single stem. But
why did they not sing, Finch asked himself. Then he saw that their
mouths were stretched wide but that the force of the gale tore the sound
away. Only once a faint howl penetrated the room. They heard the sacred
Name uttered as in an appeal for succour. Then one of the giant firs at
the edge of the lawn fell like a shadow, almost obliterating the
singers.

"Take them money," cried Augusta, "and tell them to go home!" She took a
florin from her desk.

Finch found another in his pocket.

The waits touched their caps and staggered back along the drive out of
sight. Finch raised his face and let the rain dash against it.

In the morning when Ellen brought his hot water, he asked--"Is it a fine
morning, Ellen?"

"Yes, indeed sir. And the bells are chiming luvely."

The chimes came swinging through the mist and in at the open window. The
bells clamoured in ecstatic confusion. He sat up in bed and looked out.
There were rose-coloured streaks in the sky. Beneath the thin crescent
of the old moon a rook was flying. He saw an owl skim past.

While he dressed he watched the sheep in the meadow. Some of them, he
was sure, must soon drop their lambs. They were enormous and stood
motionless as though listening to the chimes. He had got very fond of
the ewes. He watched them in the evening when their fleece was reddened
by the sunset, and in the morning when they looked so white against the
green of the grass that one would have thought they had just been
washed. He watched them on foggy days when they looked like fragments of
the fog made solid.

He had become acquainted with the shepherd and, as January advanced, he
had frequent talks with him. He stood by while the shepherd and his boy
built a shelter of bundles of faggots and covered it with thatch, where
lambing ewes and ailing young ones might be kept warm.

One morning in late January he discovered twin lambs standing beside one
of the ewes. The other ewes stood about her staring as though envious.
She bleated loudly to her lambs and they sent up weak, nasal baas in
reply. They staggered on their thick woolly legs.

Finch gave a sudden laugh of delight, then started at the sound of his
own laughter. It was so long since he had laughed. The muscles of his
face felt stiff and unaccustomed to it. He stood grinning as the lambs
began to suck, almost shaken off their feet by their efforts. He could
scarcely wait to get down to breakfast that he might tell Augusta about
them.

Every morning he hurried to the window to see if there were new lambs.
Every few days a new one would appear, and one morning there were four.
The first pair had become hardy and strong on their legs. They bunted
their mother's udder while they nursed, their tails excitedly shaking.

One evening he heard plaintive cries in the meadow. He went through the
gate and discovered a lamb lost. Its mother was lying among the other
ewes chewing her cud, quite satisfied with the twin of the lost one.
Finch picked it up in his arms. Its legs dangled, its dense wool was
tightly curled, it raised its face, full of entreaty, to Finch's. He
hugged it to him, his bones seeming to melt with tenderness. This was
how he used to feel when he had held the infant Mooey in his arms. He
carried the lamb from ewe to ewe, seeking the mother. His long face bent
above it with an expression of great tenderness. He patted it
comfortingly with his large, finely-articulated hand. At last its cries
attracted the ewe from whose body it had come. She stopped chewing the
cud and turned her pale eyes, with a look of cynical benignity, toward
the lamb. Finch laid it by her side.

He stood gazing at the sheep that were becoming pale blurs in the
twilight and a feeling of peace rose into him as though from the earth
itself. He remembered how often he had seen the shepherd standing there
at night with his lanthorn, watchful of the ewes that they might not
lamb uncared for in the night.

He returned to the house hugging this new-found peace to him as he had
hugged the lost lamb. He was afraid to speak, afraid to be spoken to,
lest it should leave him. He went and sat by Augusta and stroked her
sallow, blue-veined hand with his. She blinked and drew back her chin,
feeling something magnetic in his touch.

"You're feeling better, aren't you, my dear?" she said.

He did not answer but went on stroking her hand. He would have liked to
talk to her about himself but she could not have understood.

A few days later she drew his attention to the steadiness of his hand.
He had not known that she had noticed how it shook.

She ordered that a bright fire should be kept in the drawing-room, and
herself opened the piano and laid music on the rack. She stood holding
the pieces a long way off so that she might make out the notes and
discover whether or not the music were lively.

He saw through her, and he was touched and ashamed. He realised that he
must have been an uncomfortable visitor of late. Yet she had never once
been sharp with him. Then, as he felt compassion for Augusta he thought
less about his own plight, but days passed before he could make up his
mind to walk into the trap.

At last he did, and found that his nerves, instead of reacting
painfully, were quite tranquil. He felt firmer in his mind than he had
for months.

Now he played each evening to Augusta, bending above the keyboard with
flying hands, his forelock dangling. He played his favourite Chopin,
finding in his masculinity assuagement for his own futile passion. He
realised that the architecture of his existence was being built up and
that he himself had little to do with the founding of it.




                                 XXVIII


                                THE HUNT

On a morning in early February, when Finch had gone to the village to
post a letter for Augusta, he was surprised to see, scattered over the
green, a number of horsemen, some wearing red coats. He remembered then
having heard the gardener say that the Hunt was to meet that day in
Nymet Crews. Just as he dropped the letter in the box and turned away,
the huntsman rode up, followed by the pack of hounds. He stopped outside
The White Swan and, a moment later, the publican himself came out,
carrying a glass on a small tray. The huntsman bent forward, took the
glass, and emptied it in one gulp. He shouted good morning to another
man in a red coat who was riding a tall bright chestnut with white
eyelashes on one eye. Several others came cantering up, among them half
a dozen ladies and young girls, some riding astride and some side
saddle. There was a charming little girl of twelve on a black pony. She
sat very upright and had a flaxen pigtail on each shoulder.

Finch strolled about examining the horses. He realised that he knew much
more about them than he had thought. When he was at home he was always
made conscious of his own ignorance. Groups of people had gathered on
the pavement to watch the assembly. The idiot wheeled his little cart
excitedly up and down, his moon face raised to each horseman in turn.
The school children had been let out and stood stolidly gazing, kept in
order by their mistress. There were quite a number of farmers and their
sons riding, to judge by the grey and brown coats. One old mare, ridden
by a pink-cheeked youth, came lolloping up, her rough woolly legs caked
with mud. Finch judged that the white-moustached old gentleman with the
eyeglass and the top-hat well back on his head was riding an Irish
horse. He wished, with a sudden pang of homesickness, that Renny were
there. How he would have enjoyed all this!

They hung about waiting for late comers, talking in small groups. The
village green lay in bright sunshine. The ducks on the pond quacked
without intermission. The hounds relaxed against the sunny wall of the
inn garden. One of the riders was having trouble with his horse. It
wheeled and backed continually. He dismounted and examined the bit and
saddle. He took off his hat and wiped his forehead, the sun shining on
his yellow hair and florid face. Again he mounted and, at the same
moment, the stragglers trotted up, and all fell into procession.

As the hounds, trotting close together with waving tails, disappeared
along the cobbled village street, followed by the hunters, their scarlet
coats and the gleaming flanks of their mounts bright in the morning sun,
Finch wished he might have been one of the group of cyclists who
followed after.

As he climbed the long hill to Lyming a mist advanced from the moor,
blurring the landscape and reducing the sun to a pallid metal disc. The
sun seemed lost to the world until, suddenly, its reflection glared up
at Finch from a puddle. Far away he thought he heard the sound of a
horn. The song of the missel-thrushes, that had but lately arrived, came
muted through the mist. As he walked along the drive he saw that the
preceding night had been cold enough to form thin ice. It lay like a
skein of silver thread along the edge of a rivulet left by the recent
floods. In its bitter kiss the pointed tongues of the ferns were caught.

He went into the house and gave Augusta the newspaper he had brought. He
was telling her about having seen the huntsmen when, quite near, as it
seemed, they heard the mournful, musical baying of the hounds. Augusta
threw a shawl about her and they hastened out to the drive. Along the
slope beyond the orchard they saw a blot of red against the fog. Another
and another appeared, and the baying of the hounds did not cease.

"The fox has likely run through Ram's Close and is going toward the
Millford covers," said Augusta. "If you will run to the bottom of the
orchard, Finch, you will quite likely see them cross the stream, unless
they go round by the lane. If you were going to stay here with me, you
should certainly buy a horse and join the Hunt. What a pity a fog has
risen!"

Finch left her side and ran through the long grass of the orchard, where
every blade, from tip to root, was hung with beads of moisture. He went
in leaps till he reached the wall at the foot. From the top he looked
down on the eight or ten riders who were crossing the stream. Others who
had already crossed were galloping up the steep of Ram's Close in the
direction of the hounds.

The opening in the bank through which the riders passed, in order to
cross the stream, was narrow. A rider would dismount, drive his horse
before him with a slap on the flank, himself cross the stream on the
stepping-stones, capturing the horse on the other side and remounting.
In some cases this answered very well, but in others the horses were
averse from entering the stream and, once they were loosed, meandered
about in the mud, tried to return the way they had come, or, having got
into the stream, floundered with as much apparent alarm as if it had
been a river.

Finch, perched on his ivy-covered wall, chuckled at the antics of the
perspiring horses and riders. He would have liked to shout his approval
when the little pigtailed girl, having got her pony across in good
order, mounted him and galloped up the field, showing a back plastered
with mud from a fall.

One rider, a man in a grey coat, was in difficulty. His horse, tall and
raw-boned, could not be persuaded to cross the stream. Time and again he
drove it before him with shouts and cuts, but, just as it had floundered
over mud and stones to the opposite bank, it invariably wheeled about,
facing its master with ears laid back and plunged back to its
starting-point. When it reached there it turned its face toward home,
and its rider was forced to chase it half-way across a ploughed field
before it could be captured.

One by one the others disappeared up the grassy slope of Ram's Close.
With a furious shout the grey-coated man made a final attempt to force
his beast across the stream. This time he succeeded. The horse mounted
the opposite bank with a natural, unflurried air and broke at once into
a sprightly canter. The man slithered across the stepping-stones and
began, with blood-lustful imprecations, to run after him up the slope.
It was steep. Sweat poured down his face. He was mud to the thighs.

Finch squatted on his wall, his mouth stretched in a hilarious grin. The
horse hesitated and looked over his shoulder at the man.

He shouted: "Stop! You...! Stop!"

With a toss of its mane the horse cantered on. Finch saw then that some
of the preceding riders had opened the gate at the crest of the rise and
had neglected to shut it. The man saw it too.

"The gate!" he bawled to Finch. "Shut it!"

Finch bounded along his wall. He leaped from it and sped toward the
gate. His sudden appearance startled the horse and it broke into a
gallop, passed through the gate, and disappeared over the crest of the
hill.

The man, without another glance at Finch, laboured on. As he went
through the gate which Finch held open for him, he panted:

"If ever I lay hands on un--God help un!"

Finch saw that he was a neighbouring farmer. He disappeared after his
horse, calling on the Almighty to witness what he would do to him when
captured.

If only young Wake were here, how he would have enjoyed the spectacle!
For the second time that morning Finch found himself thinking of those
at home with longing.

He trotted across Ram's Close to the far end, where another steep slope
disclosed a rich panorama of red ploughed fields, green meadows and
dense copses, and an encroaching arm of moorland. From afar came the
silver call of the huntsman's horn and the confused, musical whimpering
of the hounds, but nothing was to be seen. The countryside lay in
apparent unbroken peace.

In the next field a man was ploughing, followed by a flock of rooks,
walking sedately, peering into the freshly turned furrows. As the horn
sounded anew he dropped his plough and ran toward the bank which
separated the field from Ram's Close. He scrambled through the holly
bushes that topped it. As he drew near Finch, he called:

"Be goin' to see Hunt, zur? They'll kill, I'll warrant, down in
Childerditch Wood."

Finch ran by his side. They crossed the field and entered a lane. A
little later they were joined by two men who had been cutting trusses of
hay from a rick. The fog had passed, leaving the air of a surpassing
clearness.

One of the men, an old one with a white beard who jogged along easily
without once falling behind, seemed to know by instinct just where they
would have the best chance of a sight of the Hunt. He spoke in such
broad Devon that Finch could barely make out what he said.

From the lane they turned into a road and saw a score of people on foot,
on bicycles, and in motors hurrying along it.

They entered a gate through mud ankle-deep and found themselves on a
ridge overlooking the covert, from where came the clamour of the hounds.
There was silence in the group as all eyes were fixed intently on the
unruffled scene below. Finch was delighted to see the man in the grey
coat mounted on his horse galloping across the adjoining field. He
headed the horse at a bank, over which it literally climbed, sending
down clods of earth and stones, while the rider, purple-faced, held up
his feet out of the way. He then galloped across the next field and
disappeared into the wood.

Finch's eyes wandered to the faces of those about him. Wholesome ruddy
faces, turned in intense concentration on the one spot. How many
generations of outdoor-living, sport-loving ancestors lay behind them!
Two young girls stood near him. They had come in a motor-car and were
apparently prevented from hunting by accidents they had sustained at the
last meet.

"They might as well hunt for a needle in a haystack," said one. "We lost
the last one there."

An elderly man said--"Ay, the Hunt dance were a proper long one. They
kept it up till red sky showed." But not an eye wavered in the combined
gaze bent on the wood.

Suddenly the old man nudged Finch. "Look 'ee," he said. He pointed to a
long open field that lay between the wood and a hill-side covered with
gorse.

Finch, following with his eyes the direction indicated, saw a small
tawny body running across the field. Half a dozen voices babbled,
"Look--Look!" But all looked in the wrong direction save him and the old
man. Finch's heart began to beat in heavy, precise thumps. He stared so
hard at the fox that his eyes ached. He longed to help it. He longed for
it to escape. Not one of these others was on the side of the fox. Yet in
some mysterious way his heart was also with the Hunt. Those about broke
suddenly into an excited shout of "Hoick--Hoick!" He kept his eyes
riveted on that tawny streak, so isolated, flying across the field. It
disappeared into the bushes. But, louder than any, he
shouted--"Hoick--Hoick!"

At the same instant there came a screech from the Whip, who had suddenly
viewed the fox. In an instant the huntsmen were out of the woods. The
hounds crossed the field in a long dappled stream. The riders, in
scarlet coats and white breeches, in grey, in brown, in long black
habits, followed after.

Finch was proud to find that he and the old man were the only ones who
had seen the fox. The onlookers talked together like one family. The
opinion was that the fox had had too good a start. They would never get
him. He had likely crossed the road and sought familiar burrows near
Charity Wood. With one accord they shouldered their way through the gate
and into the road. Those who had motor-cars scrambled into them. Those
who had bicycles hopped on to them. Those on foot jogged doggedly
through the mud.

About a quarter of a mile farther on they went into another field and
ran across a furze-covered down toward another wood, into which they
could now see the Hunt disappearing. But the wary old fox had escaped
them. Scarcely a sound issued from the wood. A missel-thrush sent up a
sweet fluting from the tall bough of an alder. An affrighted rabbit
bounded by showing a flash of white scut.

When hounds and horses reappeared, jogging toward a fresh covert, Finch
turned homeward. He had seen enough. Now he knew what the Hunt was. Had
been exalted by it. He wished he had hired a horse and joined it that
winter. He was surprised at himself. He must be something of a Court
after all. But how glad he was that the fox had escaped. The old man had
told him that he had been hunted time and again--enjoyed it. And
certainly there had been no appearance of terror in his flight. He had
sped down the field with an air of wary assurance.

How Piers would take to fox-hunting! Like a duck to water. Finch
wondered how it was that the thought of his brothers kept recurring that
day. One after another their faces had risen before him--Renny,
Wakefield, Piers. He had thought of Meggie too, and Pheasant, and the
little ones. Was it the thought of them that had made him happier? Or
was it the forgetting of himself that morning? Whatever it was, he found
himself tingling with a new vivid pleasure in life. Then he realised
that for weeks he had been less unhappy. At that realisation his spirits
shot up in renewed hope. He had freed himself without knowing it from
the chains that had bound him. He had been free and had not known it....

In the orchard he found a clump of snowdrops in blow. They were
clustered on a knoll beneath a lichen-covered apple-tree, their pure
bells shaking out faint fragrance above grey-green leaves. As he knelt,
bending his face to them, he saw that all through the grass a thousand
spears of daffodils were thrusting up, holding tight their gold till the
moment came for flinging it across the grass. How lovely this orchard
would be in another month! And he not here! No, he would not be here--he
would be in the snow at Jalna. He was going home.

That afternoon he passed the little girl with the flaxen pigtails,
jogging back from the Hunt on her stout pony. She leaned from the saddle
toward him displaying a smear of red across her face.

"I've been blooded!" she cried triumphantly.

"And so have I," he returned.




                                  XXIX


                             HIS OWN PLACE

He was in his own room. It was unbelievable. He had passed through
terrific things and was home again. Back in the very room where he had
dressed for his birthday party a year ago. He had landed at St. John
from a steamer armoured in ice, he had rumbled through days and nights
on the train, Piers had met him at the station in style, driving the new
car. When they had turned into the side road at Weddles, what drifts,
what ruts of snow there had been. All the trees along the drive drooped
their branches under the weight of snow. On each side of the porch rough
mounds of it had been shovelled from the steps but on the lawn it lay
virgin white and unbroken.

The first greetings were over and he had run up to see his room before
dinner. It was all ready for him, clean counterpane and
pillow-cases--why, the curtains were freshly laundered and a new rug had
been laid on the worn spot before the chest of drawers! He could
scarcely believe in his room or in himself. The room seemed to turn
about--and he turn in it--as the snowflakes floated and turned outside the
window. There was the very chair he had sat in, wrapped in his quilt,
waiting for the moment of his birthday dinner! There was the table,
ink-stained and shabby, at which he had swotted for his exams! There
were the shelves with his books! Lord, there was the stain on the
ceiling where the roof leaked, and there was the basin on the floor
waiting for the next drops!

He opened the door of the clothes cupboard and looked in. There were the
clothes that had been too old to take away with him! They would come in
very well now that he was home again. Why, there was the brand new
sweater that Uncle Ernest had not allowed him to take because it was too
loud for England! He had forgotten all about it. How he wished that he
had bought a new supply of clothes in London! What a dud he was! The
fellows would be sure to ask him what new clothes he had got.

He pictured himself going in to dinner, just a little late, wearing a
new suit, perfectly tailored by one of the best tailors in the West End,
imparting to him an air of negligent elegance. And above the suit his
face rising, world-worn and disillusioned, showing new lines of
suffering. He went to the mirror and examined his face to see whether or
not there were any lines on it. He could discover neither new lines nor
old. It was hollow-cheeked, to be sure, but looked as fresh and youthful
as it had when last reflected in that mirror. He drew a deep sigh.
Strange that one should go through hell, as he had done, and show no
sign of it....

The gong sounded for dinner. He felt so natural descending the attic
stairs that all the past year seemed suddenly a dream. Yet he realised
that it was no dream when Mooey appeared outside his mother's door grown
almost half a head taller. And there was Pheasant--he had only seen her
for a moment--how terribly different she looked! Her little face had
looked tired and white and her body so heavy that movement seemed
painful. Poor young Pheasant! She had looked like a boy in her tweed
coat and cropped head the day she had come to see him off.

"Hello," he said to Mooey, "do you remember me? I'm Uncle Finch."

"What did you b'ing me? Mummy says Unca Finch will b'ing p'esents."

Finch almost staggered in his dismay. He had been in such a hurry to get
home that the thought of presents had never once crossed his mind. What
a blasted fool he was! The first day he had been in London he had stared
in shop windows choosing imaginary presents for each one, and then, when
the time came for buying them, he had forgot! He gave a sickly smile at
Mooey.

Mooey took a threatening step forward. "I want my p'esent," he demanded.

"Why, look here," stuttered Finch, "look here, the presents aren't
unpacked yet."

"Unpack them, then," commanded Mooey.

"Mooey," called Pheasant's voice from within the room. "You must not ask
for your present till after dinner!"

Finch skulked down the next flight of stairs to the hall. The family
were already in the dining-room. He stood hesitating, knitting his brow,
as he tried to think what to do about presents.... He would just have to
say that the bag they were packed in had gone astray. At the first
opportunity he would go into town, ostensibly to inquire about it, and
buy presents all round. He must make sure that each was marked with the
name of an English firm. It would be terrible to be caught in so callous
a deception.

He stood for a moment in the hall, absorbing the feeling of home. Old
Benny and the two spaniels lay beside the round stove which glowed,
almost red hot. He thought of the cellar-like atmosphere of the hall at
Lyming. And not a dog in the house--not even a cat! He remembered the
dining-room--he and his aunt facing each other across the not too
well-laden board. It needed long absence and experience abroad to make
one appreciate home.

The Vaughans had come to dinner. Ten people were ranged about the table.
Pheasant was having hers in her room. Finch sat between Piers and
Wakefield. On his left, Wake's narrow, olive-tinted hands. On his right,
those of Piers, whitened by the long winter, broad, strong, the sight of
them bringing recollections of rough-handling, of hearty thumps. How
often he had felt helpless in the grasp of those hands!

Across the table was Meggie smiling at him, looking even plumper than
before but rather pale.

"Just the tiniest bit of beef, Renny! No--not a scrap of the fat!
Perhaps--when spring comes--I shall get my appetite back!"

Renny scowled as he watched her help herself to a morsel of cauliflower
from the dish Wragge held. He said:

"You are not eating enough for a baby. You will never get your strength
back at this rate. Does she go on like this at home, Maurice?"

"Just the same," returned Maurice stolidly.

"Well, you should force her to eat."

Alayne gave an impatient movement and began to talk to Ernest on her
left.

Meg said--"The doctor insists that what I need is a change. He suggests a
month in Florida. Fancy suggesting Florida to me, when he knows it has
almost ruined us to pay for my operation."

"Oh, no! Not quite," objected Maurice, somewhat embarrassed. "But
certainly a trip to Florida is out of the question."

Wragge ostentatiously proffered a dish of buttered turnips to the
convalescent.

"No, no, Rags! But how nice they look! I only wish I could!"

Renny asked Maurice in an undertone:

"Does she have many little lunches at home?"

But Meg overheard. She replied for her husband.

"I have nothing else. I have never had a real meal since ..." She did
not need to finish the sentence. She put her elbow on the table and
rested her head in her hand. She smiled, but her smile was pensive.

Alayne asked crisply--"Have you tried a good tonic?"

Instinct told Maurice that he was expected to answer Alayne's question.
He said:

"She has taken five bottles of the tonic her own doctor gave her, and
two from a prescription that Mrs. Lebraux let her have."

"But--do you think it is sensible to take other people's prescriptions?"

This time Meg answered. "Not _anyone's_, of course. But Clara Lebraux is
such a darling! And she told me that Renny asked her to let me have it."

Renny shot a glance of annoyance at his sister. "It was a tonic that was
given her after Tony's death. She was badly run down. It helped her."
Why should Meggie have dragged in Clara's name?

Finch observed--"Mrs. Court had a great opinion of cod liver oil. She
insisted on dosing Leigh with it."

Meg leaned toward him. "Do tell us about Mrs. Court and Sarah! What did
you think of the girl?"

The sudden introduction of Sarah into the conversation startled Finch.
For a second the faces about him were blotted out by a vision of her,
standing on a Cornish cliff, facing the wind. "Over there is Ireland."
Her beautiful pale face alight with a sudden wild joy.

Ernest put in--"I don't think Finch was attracted by her. She is a
strange, uncomfortable girl. Not a girl to please the modern young man."

"Let him speak for himself," said Nicholas, remembering the day he had
come upon them making music when they had believed the others to be out.

Finch tried to speak nonchalantly. "Well, she is a curious sort of girl.
Awfully self-centred. Not at all sympathetic." He felt the peculiar
weight on the chest that the thought of Sarah always brought. "As a
matter of fact, I feel rather sorry for Leigh."

"What a pity!" exclaimed Meg. "Arthur Leigh is such a sweet young man.
It is too bad that he should have a hard, unsympathetic wife. Still, it
is rather nice to have our cousin married to him. It will make an
interesting connection. Is she pretty, Finch?"

"Not at all. She's a rigid pale creature with something witchlike about
her."

"Heavens! Whatever did young Leigh see in her?"

"I can't imagine." What lies he was telling. He wished that the
conversation might change to another subject.... He remembered a letter
in his pocket, and said--"Oh, Meggie, I have a letter for you from Aunt
Augusta!" He pushed it across the table to her.

It had the desired effect. Meg must peep into the letter to see what
Augusta had written.

Finch said--"Look here, I've just discovered that a suitcase is missing.
The worst of it is, that it was the one that had the presents in it. I
must go to town and see about it."

"Are you sure you're not bluffing?" asked Piers.

Finch flushed angrily. "Of course I'm not!"

"What did you bring me?" demanded Wakefield.

"Wait and see."

"May I guess?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I see that you're as great a nuisance as ever."

"Tell him what you have brought him," said Renny. "He'll like to be
thinking about it."

"Very well ... I brought you a camera!"

Wake shouted--"One of the sort you can take moving pictures with?"

"Yes."

"Good! Good! Oh, splendid! Oh, thank you, Finch!"

The family was genuinely impressed. Each speculated pleasurably on what
Finch had brought him.

Finch was the last to leave the dining-room. Wragge said, with an
ingratiating smile, as he passed him:

"I do 'ope as 'ow the little purse you were kind enough to accept on
your birthday 'as been of use, sir."

Finch muttered that he did not know how he should have got along without
the purse. Outside he thought--"Lord, he expects something, too!"

Renny and Piers were standing by the stove in the hall. They were
smoking, and Renny was pulling the ears of his spaniels, which had
reared themselves against him. His brothers turned toward him, their
faces expressing amused friendliness. Here he was, young Finch, back in
their midst with the varied experiences of a year behind him. They
wondered what he had been up to during that year. At that moment he felt
very much the man of the world, almost patronising toward these
stay-at-home brothers. Piers offered him a cigarette and looked him
over.

"I can't say that you've improved," he said. "You look half starved as
always. Haven't you any new clothes? That's the suit you went away in."

"I bought a few things. But I haven't unpacked them yet."

"Perhaps they're in the suitcase with the presents."

Finch coloured. What a shrewd devil Piers was! It was plain that he
suspected something.

"Just what did you buy in the way of clothes?" asked Renny. "They're so
much cheaper over there that I hope you got a good supply."

"Not as many as I should, I'm afraid. You see, I was in the country
almost all the time."

His brothers stared.

"How long were you in London?"

"A fortnight," he answered heavily.

They could scarcely believe him.

"And Paris. How long were you there?"

"I didn't get across to Paris."

Good God! He hadn't got across to Paris!

Had he seen the Derby? Had he been to Newmarket? Any boat races? Polo?
What shows had he seen?

As they questioned and he answered, he felt that his stock had
irrevocably gone down, so far as they were concerned. He thought what
either of them would have done with a year in England. He could not tell
them all his real experiences. He mumbled his negations, avoiding their
eyes.

"By Judas!" exclaimed Renny. "You are the limit! I send you off when you
are twenty-one to see the world. You take two aged uncles with you and
spend ten months in the house with an aged aunt! You've seen
nothing--done nothing so far as I can see but mope about a village green,
passing the time of day with the village idiot. Did you keep up your
music?"

A shiver ran across Finch's nerves. He began to feel that this
questioning was too much for him. He was relieved to see Maurice emerge
at that moment from the coat room behind the stairs where he had been in
search of his pipe. He came up to them, filling it from the pouch which
he held in his disabled hand.

"Come and join the wonder-struck circle," said Piers. "Hear what this
bright young man is telling us poor yokels about his trip abroad."

Maurice grinned expectantly. "Well, the girls are out of the way. Let's
have the dregs! I haven't been shocked for a dog's age."

"Well, I am shocked," said Renny. "What do you suppose Finch has just
told us? He spent a fortnight in London--that was with the uncles when he
first arrived--and the rest of the year he never left his auntie's side!
What do you make of it, Maurice?"

"He's telling you just what is good for you to know, aren't you, Finch?
Meg and I have said all along that you must be having a devil of a time
since you never put pen to paper." He lighted his pipe, with a sly look
at Finch.

Renny said--"No, Maurice. You're wrong. He hasn't been having a devil of
a time. I've never known anyone so absolutely incapable of enjoying
himself. Set him down in the middle of a harem, and he'd have all the
houris and himself in tears inside of the hour."

"The point is," returned Maurice, "that he's too subtle for you. He has
ways of enjoying himself that you know nothing of."

"You've hit it!" ejaculated Piers. "Why didn't we think of that? He has
spent the whole year in sucking up to Aunt Augusta. He's after her
money! Gran's wasn't enough. He wants to be lord of the manor at
Lyming!"

Although Piers was laughing as he talked, it was clear that he was
half-convinced of what he said. The other two looked suddenly serious.
Through the tobacco smoke that enveloped them, they stared at Finch with
misgiving.

"Lord, I hadn't thought of that!" said Renny.

"You'll think of it," said Piers, "when Auntie's will is read and you
find yourself, with all your charms, left out in the cold."

"Don't be an ass!" growled Finch. "If you think I want another legacy,
you're mistaken. I went through too much with the last one." He searched
his mind for something to say that would astonish them. Something that
would show himself in a quite different light from their stupid
imaginings.

He burst out--"Well, I'll tell you one thing I did. I went on a
honeymoon--not my own either--a whole month by the sea."

"Whose honeymoon?" asked Piers, unbelievingly.

"Arthur's and--Sarah's."

He cursed himself instantly for having told of it. There was a roar of
laughter.

Piers said--"Well, you certainly must have been a death's head at the
feast! However, I can believe anything of that sissy Leigh."

Renny made a ribald remark in the vein of his grandmother, and Finch,
furious with himself, as with them, turned away and went into the
drawing-room.

He stood in the doorway a moment quieting his nerves with the peaceful,
reassuring scene.

Ernest had got his magnifying glass and was showing Wakefield, who
perched on the arm of his chair, the texture of the skin on the back of
his hand. "Oh, Uncle Ernest, you're just like a lovely pink
hippopotamus!" Nicholas, his gouty leg stuck out stiffly, was on the
piano-seat, thoughtfully strumming one of the frothy melodies of his
youth. Alayne sat nearby on the sofa. She held a book, but was gazing
appreciatively at Nicholas's massive grey head silhouetted against a
window. Meg had unearthed an old photograph album, and sat by the fire,
in a low, comfortable chair, turning its pages with an expression of
pensive sweetness.

Large snowflakes drifted against the windows, clinging an instant before
being dissolved by the inner warmth. The fire was of pine wood crackling
noisily, filling the room with a resinous smell. Though his sister gave
him an inviting look, Finch went and sat down by Alayne. He was
impressed by a change in her. He could not have told what it was, but
she had the appearance of belonging in the room as she had never
belonged before.

She welcomed him to her side with a smile. "How nice of you to come and
sit by me! You have no idea how I have missed you. You know, you were my
first friend here, Finch."

"Even then," he said, "I was whining to you about my troubles. I was
wanting music lessons!"

"What is it now? I had a feeling--from the sound of the laughter out
there--that Piers was tormenting you."

"Well, not exactly. But ragging me. And the others, too. I'm an easy
mark. I take all they say so seriously, and I don't seem able to help
it."

"I know. I've learned things since you went away, Finch."

"Then I didn't imagine the change in you."

"Is there a change in me?"

"Yes." He hesitated and then added--"You look more like the women of our
family."

She laughed, half pleased, half rueful. "Is it an improvement?"

"I think you're happier."

She looked at him, startled. "Did I strike you as being unhappy?"

"No--but I thought you would never be one of us. Now, I think, you are."

"You say 'one of us' and yet you are not like the others."

"Eden says I am a Whiteoak--as much as any."

She considered this. "Perhaps he is right. He and you both see life in a
peculiar distortion of your own. You are both artists. Yet your ultimate
vision is that of the Whiteoaks."

"Perhaps." He spoke vaguely. He was looking about the room, feeling in
it an embrace of the spirit. "I like that thing Uncle Nick is playing,
don't you?"

"I haven't been listening. I've been watching him. It's the first time
he has sat down at the piano this winter. I think you have brought the
feeling of music with you."

"I don't know why I should. I've scarcely played for months. Renny was
just asking me if I had kept my music up. Thank goodness Maurice came
along just then and nothing more was said."

"Was there something that troubled you--kept you from playing?"

His mind closed against hers. "Oh, I had a kind of nervous breakdown, I
think."

"Can't you tell me about it?"

That was the worst of her, he thought. She was too persistent, too keen
to know the why and wherefore of things. Now he felt uneasy, and, seeing
his sister's eyes on him--"Meggie has something she wants to show me," he
said, and went across to her.

He sat down by her on an ottoman embroidered in bead-work in a design of
an angel carrying a sheaf of lilies. She said:

"It's time you came and sat by me. I was feeling jealous. I have been
looking at old photographs. Isn't this an adorable one of the uncles and
our father in braided velvet dresses? Do you think Patty is like Papa?"

"A bit. But she is like Maurice, too." He lifted her hand from the album
and raised it to his cheek. "Meggie," he whispered, "I can't bear to see
you ill. You must go to Florida. I'll foot the bill."

She beamed at him. "That would be lovely! And I could take Wake with me.
The change would do him so much good. And, as he often says, the child
has been nowhere."

"Right you are. I'd intended doing something for each one of you, and
this will be your treat and Wake's."

The three men entered from the hall. Renny went straight to Alayne and
sat down by her side. He picked up the book she was reading, looked at
the title and laid it down with a grimace. Maurice turned toward Ernest
and Wakefield, putting his fingers inside the boy's collar. Piers joined
Meg and Finch. He regarded Finch with animated interest. He had
convinced himself that Finch was a subtle devil well worth watching.

Nicholas continued to play half-forgotten fragments. The dogs also had
come in and stretched themselves, with intermingled bodies, on the
hearth-rug.

Rags entered carrying the coffee which was taken in the drawing-room on
festive occasions such as this.

From above, the laughter and pattering feet of the children could be
heard.

Meg raised her voice. "What do you suppose Finch has done?"

"Seduced Alma Patch?" offered Piers.

"Piers! How can you! No ... something much more thrilling. He has
promised to send me South for my health. And I'm to take Wake with me."

"By George, that's good of you, Finch!" said Maurice warmly. He was glad
he had not joined in ragging Finch in the hall.

Wake uttered three staccato yells of triumph.

Nicholas stopped playing to demand:

"What's the to-do?"

"It's Finch," answered Meg. "He's going to send Wake and me South for
our health."

"Well, I call that handsome of him. If you two enjoy your trip as much
as Ernest and I enjoyed ours it will certainly be a success."

Renny said, looking at his boots--"I can't let you take the kid away on a
long trip like that without me."

"Not let me take him! You must be crazy, Renny! Do you think I can't
look after him properly?"

"You'd let him over-exert and eat too many sweets. The last time he
visited you he came home and had a bilious bout."

"Rubbish! As though you watched him all the time!"

"I do."

"Then a change from so much coddling would be good for him. I hope I can
look after my own little brother!"

Wakefield sat, his bright eyes flashing from one face to another, while
his fate was being discussed. Even while he had shouted in triumph he
had not really believed that the adventure would come to pass. It was
too stupendous. Such things were not for him.

Everyone was against Renny in the matter, with the exception of Alayne
who had not spoken. Meg turned to her and said:

"Surely you agree that Renny is being very perverse, Alayne!"

Alayne thought he was, but she said--"I think Renny understands Wake as
no one else does."

"Well, I suppose he must decide, but it seems rather hard that the child
should be deprived of such a change."

Nicholas rose from the piano seat. He said--"Give me an arm, Piers. My
gout is very bad to-day."

Piers went to him and assisted him to an easy chair. He sat down beside
him.

"I suppose," he said, with his prominent eyes on Finch--"that you have
all heard of Finch's honeymoon."

"I have not heard of Finch's honeymoon," returned Meg with solemnity.
"But I have heard other things about Finch that have upset me terribly."
She drew a deep breath, drew in her chin and looked accusingly at Renny.
He had offended her.

Finch gave her an agonised look. What was she going to say? To what new
torture was he to be subjected. Involuntarily he drew away from her, but
she laid her arm about his shoulders, her hand with fingers outspread,
in a gesture at once pliant and commanding, such a gesture as that with
which a cat draws her kitten to her.

Renny did not like the look nor the gesture. He stared aggressively at
her.

"Finch has brought me," she proceeded, "a letter from Aunt Augusta. I
have managed to keep what she says to myself until dinner was over."
Finch writhed under her arm.

"What the devil does she say?" asked Renny.

Meg answered--"I need not read you all her letter. Just the bits of it
that I think you should hear." She had it ready in her free hand and
held it close to her eyes, for she was short-sighted. She read:

"'I have been observing Finch closely.'" Meg turned from the letter to
observe him herself closely. All the family observed him closely. Then
she went on:

"'He has been in a state of melancholy brooding.'"

"Brooding on his honeymoon, I suppose," said Piers.

"Shh," exclaimed his sister, furiously. "This is not a matter for
joking."

"Look here," exclaimed Finch, "I don't know what this is all about, but
you're not to read that letter!"

"I must read it!" she continued--"'No wonder he broods, poor boy. It is
terrible for him to think that he has been the _victim_ of _mercenary_
relatives. I feel that I must speak out to you, Meggie, so that you may
use your influence to prevent my mother's money from being scattered to
the four winds. I should write this to his guardian Renny, but I find,
from careful questioning of Finch, that Renny has _utterly failed_ in
his duties as a _guardian_. He has given him not _one word_ of advice
regarding investments. He has allowed this inexperienced boy to lend his
money (to _give_ it, one might better say) to _any_ and _every_ one who
importuned him. I shrink from the disclosure I am about to make, but I
feel it is my _duty_. I have discovered that a certain Rosamond Trent of
New York----'"

Ernest interrupted in a shaking voice:

"I will not have Miss Trent brought into this!"

Nicholas gave vent to subterranean chuckles.

Ernest turned on him with an air of outrage. "Nick, this is your doing!"

"I never mentioned Miss Trent's name to Gussie," answered his brother.

"Finch, then, it was you!"

Finch answered heavily--"I only told Auntie that I had lent money to Miss
Trent and that she had lost everything in the Wall Street crash. I
didn't mind a bit lending it. You must know that, Uncle Ernest."

Nicholas exclaimed--"You lent her money! This is the first I've heard of
that. Ha, the hussy! So she was just making a dupe of you, Ernie! She
got at Finch's money through you, eh?"

Ernest was too affronted for speech. He sat making faces, his fingers
twisted together.

Meg could be almost heard to purr. She never released her protective
hold on Finch. She said:

"I think Miss Trent's your friend, isn't she, Alayne?"

Alayne answered in a controlled voice--"Yes. She met Finch through me. No
one can regret more than I do that Finch lent her money. I honestly
believe that she will try to pay it back."

Renny, with hands deep in his pockets, continued to stare at his boots.

"What's this," asked Piers, "about Uncle Ernest and Miss Trent?"

Nicholas answered, his voice indistinct with mirth--"Why, Finch and I
were almost frightened to death on shipboard! We thought he was going to
propose to her. You should have seen them clutched at the fancy-dress
ball--she in a pink domino, he in a mauve."

Ernest's face went a violent pink. "I'll not forgive you this in a
hurry!" he snarled.

Nicholas ignored him--"Why, he toddled all over England after her,
ransacking the country for antiques for her shop!"

The colour in Ernest's face subsided as quickly as it had risen. He
said--"Miss Trent is a charming woman. It was a pleasure to me to have
her company on shipboard. I enjoyed going about with her a little in
England. I did not know that I was making myself ridiculous. The thought
of marrying her never entered my head. If you want to amuse the family,
Nick, just tell them how you made assignations with the wife who
divorced you thirty years ago."

Nicholas thrust his hands through his grey hair, making it rise into two
antlers. He looked like an old stag at bay. "By God, you are a sneak.
How did you know I met Millicent? It was by the merest chance. And what
were you doing at the time? You were in the _kitchen_ with that Trent
woman buying the very pots and pans!"

"And you in a bedroom with the door shut, with a woman of whom you have
declared you couldn't endure the sight!"

"I'd never have married Millicent if you hadn't put me off Ruby
Fortesque!"

"Put you off Ruby Fortesque! How the devil did I do that?"

"You whined to me about how you were gone on her yourself. And then--when
I left her to you--you hadn't the guts to marry her!"

"I would have married her but that I had lost so much money through
backing that disreputable friend of yours--I forget his name!"

They glared at each other. There was an interval of silence while the
younger members of the family absorbed what they could of these ancient
revelations. One of the pine sticks on the fire gave forth an angry
crack. The three dogs leaped from the hearth-rug and stood in cowed
attitudes gazing at the fire. Then slowly they returned to the rug and
once more disposed themselves on it.

Piers said--"Well, Miss Trent evidently has a gathering eye. How much did
you lend her, Finch?"

"Ten thousand."

"It's perfidious," said Nicholas, "that my mother's money should be
thrown about like this."

"Miss Trent will pay it back, never fear!" exclaimed Ernest.

Meg said--"Now I will read a little more of the letter.... 'I do not know
whether you are aware of it, but Finch borrowed money before he attained
his majority in order to maintain Eden in France while he worked on his
new book. Arthur Leigh, from whom he borrowed it, told me this as an
evidence of Finch's magnanimity. Finch himself told me that he gave (why
should I trouble to say _lend_!) another thousand to Eden before his
return to France in December. Eden _must_ be looked after until his
health is regained or he has become famous, but why should Renny shift
the responsibility of this to Finch's young shoulders?'"

"I sent him a thousand in the summer!" put in Renny, hotly.

To two of those present the bringing in of Eden's name was almost
unbearable. The others were conscious of this, so the loan to him was
allowed to pass with no more than a faint sputter of exclamation.

Meg was obliged to remove her arm from Finch's shoulder in order to find
the next part of the closely written letter. He straightened himself and
a certain mordant pleasure in the scene took possession of him. Well,
let her go through with it, let them see what he had done with the money
they had made such a howl about his inheriting!

"Here endeth the first lesson," said Vaughan, jocularly. "Now for the
second...."

"The second," said his wife with her eye on Piers, "is the piggery."

"I'd like to know what anyone has to say against the piggery!" exclaimed
Piers.

Meg replied by reading from the letter. "'If mamma had wished to build
an expensive piggery, she would have built one long ago....'"

"Yes, indeed," agreed Ernest, glad of the introduction of a subject so
far removed from himself. "She detested piggeries."

Meg read on--"'If mamma had wished her money to be spent on an expensive
motor car she would have bought one long ago. The one motor ride she had
was the one which conveyed her to her grave. She would turn over in that
grave, I am sure, if she knew of all that has been going on.'" And Meg
added briskly--"I quite agree."

Piers eyed her truculently. "I suppose you do. But what about the
mortgage?"

"What mortgage?" she asked, in a shocked tone.

"Why, your own mortgage. The one you chivvied young Finch into taking
over. I'll wager that you've never paid the interest on that yet!"

Meg's glance was benign as she turned to Finch. "Tell him, Finch."

"She paid me this morning. As soon as she came over."

"Before she'd read that letter?"

"Yes."

Piers shouted with laughter. "You've managed to save your face, Meggie!"

"Nothing but extreme necessity because of my operation delayed the
payment," she returned.

"I like the new motor car," said Wakefield.

"Of course you do," Piers answered. "And you're not the only one that
likes it. Everyone here seems willing to make use of it. You jumped at
the chance of being driven to the hospital in it, Meg."

Meg folded her short, plump arms and surveyed Piers with sisterly
disapproval. "You are far too critical, Piers, for a young man who has
had no more experience of life than you have. Where have you been? As
far west as Niagara Falls. As far east as Montreal. Think of it! Yet no
one in the family is so aggressive as you!"

"Where have you been yourself?" he flared.

"I leave shortly for Florida."

"That's still in the future. In the past, all you've done is to move
across the ravine just in the nick of time to have a baby!"

"Maurice!" shouted Meg. "Are you going to let him insult me?"

Maurice made himself heard above the general laughter. "You let my wife
alone!" he scowled, as he knew Meggie expected him to scowl, at the
brother-in-law who was also his son-in-law.

Piers, unabashed, continued--"As for the piggery, it's not mine at all.
It simply adds to the value of Jalna. It belongs to Renny."

"The hell it does!" said Renny. "I won't have it!"

Piers turned to Finch. "Whom does the piggery belong to?"

"Jalna," answered Finch. Gradually, from being most unhappy, he had
become rather pleased with himself. Here he was, the centre of a row,
yet no one was blaming him. He took Meggie's hand and replaced it on his
shoulder. She gave him a tender smile. "What this poor boy has
suffered!" she exclaimed.

Nicholas said--"The great mistake was to allow him absolute control of
the money at twenty-one. I should have been made his trustee."

Renny shot him a look. "You! I was his guardian."

"A lot you've guarded him," retorted Nicholas. "You've allowed him to
follow every whim."

"I wanted to keep out of the affair."

"But why? It was your business more than anyone's, as you say."

"It would have been very different," said Ernest, "if Mamma had given me
control over the money."

"Hmph!" growled his brother. "Out of the frying-pan into the fire, I
should say."

"What I have never been able to understand," said Meg, "is this--Why did
Granny leave me nothing but her watch and chain and that old Indian
shawl. No one carries such a watch now. And she thought so little of the
shawl that she used to let Boney make a nest in it. And then to give
Pheasant that gorgeous ruby ring!"

"For God's sake, forget about that ring!" ejaculated Piers. "When Gran's
things were divided you got two rings."

"Neither of them could compare with the ruby! And how can I forget it
when Pheasant is so ostentatious with it. Why, she's taken to wearing it
on her fore-finger!"

"She'll wear it on her nose if she chooses!"

Maurice scowled without any urging from Meg. He refilled his pipe and
lighted it with a coal from the fire.

"All I got was her bed," said Renny.

Meg curled her short upper lip in a sneer. "A pity about you, truly!
When you have the whole estate!"

"Yes," grunted Nicholas. "Jalna thrown in!"

Ernest added: "He did not think Jalna worth considering!"

The face of the master of Jalna became as red as his hair. "Gran had
nothing to do with my getting Jalna! I got it through my father."

Another silence ensued in which each seemed to be searching his own mind
for a weapon to turn against the others. Alayne refilled the coffee
cups. The pot was emptied. She thought--"I cannot endure to stay here. I
must leave them to have their row out in their own way." But she did not
go. Since her return the life at Jalna had become her life, as never
before. If she left the room she would be tacitly acknowledging that she
was of weaker fibre than they. She would stay, no matter how her head
ached, no matter how she inwardly shrank from the things they said.

Wakefield's clear voice was heard. "Was there anything more in the
letter, Meggie?"

"Yes. There is more in the letter." There was an increased tension as
she read--"'Are you aware that Finch invested thirty thousand dollars in
New York stocks and lost it? He informed me of this without _visible_
emotion. But he was never the same again. He seemed _sunk_ in apathy. As
for me, no words can express my pain at seeing the fortune, so many
years _hoarded_ by my mother, come to such a queer _unnatural_ end.
Writing without violence I may say that I consider Renny's _callous_
neglect to be at the bottom of the disaster.'"

A smile flickered across Finch's pale face. Now what would they make of
this? He clasped his knee in his hands, and his eyes, in which the large
pupils were unusually bright, took in the scene before him without
moving.

Nicholas's voice came from a long way off. "You have lost thirty
thousand dollars in stocks ... what stocks?"

He answered, in a low hurried voice--"I bought on margin. Fifty thousand
each in Universal Autos--Upstate Utility Corporation--and Cereal Foods ...
I put up a twenty per cent margin. My broker cabled me--when the crash
came--that I must put up the eighty per cent balance if possible--if I was
to save my holdings. I refused."

"You refused!" shouted Piers. "You blithering young ass!"

"You let the money go!" said Maurice. "My God! But why?"

"I was sick of the business. I wasn't going to throw good money after
bad."

Alayne cried--"Oh, Finch, and I cabled you, too! Oh, why didn't you hold
on? I never dreamed that you would let it go!"

Ernest turned on her. "So, you were into it, too, Alayne! I'm astonished
at you. This is terrible." He took out his handkerchief and mopped his
brow.

Piers asked of her--"Did you hold on? Finch told me that you had
invested."

"Yes, I am holding on."

"You're lucky. They'll be rising again."

Meggie spoke. "Alayne Archer, it is your fault that my brother has lost
all this money. You excited him by your own speculations. The decent
thing for you to do is to make up his loss to him out of what your aunt
left you. He is only a poor, misguided boy!"

"She'll do nothing of the sort," said Renny emphatically.

Nicholas said--"You evidently knew of the investment, Piers, and you told
us nothing. It's a damnable shame!"

"He told me, in confidence."

"It was your duty to speak. You were the only one who knew."

"You are greatly to blame, Piers," said Ernest.

Maurice and Meg, who had both approved the investment, kept silent.

"Let us calculate," said Nicholas. "There is this absolute loss of
thirty thousand. There is the ten thousand to the Trent woman...."

"He will get that back," interjected Ernest.

"Don't be a fool," rejoined his brother, and continued--"That's forty
thousand. Then, we'll say five thousand for Eden. Another five for the
motor car and that accursed piggery----"

Piers put in--"Don't forget your trip abroad, Uncle Nick!"

Nicholas went on imperturbably. "Well, add another five thousand for
that. Then, there's the fifteen thousand mortgage for the Vaughans...."

"Merciful Heaven!" cried Meggie. "You're not counting that as a loss,
are you?"

Nicholas regarded her, sceptically. "That remains to be seen. Now, my
friends, this lad has about forty thousand dollars left of Mamma's
bequest to him. And, by the time he has paid for this visit to Florida
he will have still less. Interesting, isn't it, to see how rapidly money
can be dispersed?" He tugged his grey moustache and smiled bitterly at
his kinsmen.

"Renny, Renny," said Ernest, "you are greatly to blame for this! You
treated Finch as a child till he was twenty-one and then you threw him
out from the nest to do what he willed."

"It's true enough," said Piers. "Several times, in my hearing, Finch
asked his advice about his affairs and Renny simply turned away and left
him."

"His pigeons will come home to roost," said Meggie.

"A fat lot they will," said Piers. "Here's his wife with a fresh fortune
left her."

They all looked at Alayne. She had probably never felt quite so
embarrassed in her life. To add to her embarrassment Renny began sulkily
to play with her fingers. For the first time in her life she could think
of nothing to say. She opened her mouth and shut it. Her mind floundered
among the wreckage of argument and complaint that had been cast upon
this sea of dissension. They did not wait long for her to speak. They
were all talking at once. The talk surged about her and Renny, who also
was silent. Finch, hedged round with Meggie's solicitude, sat clasping
his knee, an enigmatic smile on his face, now and then replying to a
question in the same untroubled tone.

At last Piers rose, stretched himself, and went to the dining-room. He
returned with a decanter of whiskey, a siphon, and some glasses.

"How about something to light up the old innards, Uncle Nick," he said.
"Have a spot, medicinally, Uncle Ernie."

Finch drifted to the piano. He could not understand why it was, but he
wanted to play to the family. All the tremors of the past months had
left his nerves. He felt strong and free and, for some subtle reason,
rather proud. They had been waiting for, watching Gran's money since
before he was born. He had suffered obloquy because it had been left to
him. Now two-thirds of it had melted and they were still talking, but
blaming each other now rather than him. His music was come back to him,
flowing through his veins like wine. The past year was not wasted. He
had loved and he had suffered. He was home again in his own place. He
would work hard and become a great musician yet. He would spend every
cent of what he had left on his music. He felt his heart go out with
longing toward Renny.

He played Chopin to them. He pictured himself as sweeping them along
with him on those deep masculine waves of melody. Through Brahms and the
faint sounds of Debussy he led them to the tolerance and tranquillity of
Mozart. He played for an hour. Then he looked round with an almost
mystic curiosity to see the effect of his spell.

Nicholas, Maurice, and Piers formed a group around the siphon. From them
came a rumble of talk that was apparently agreeable, for it was broken
by low laughter. Wakefield now sat on the ottoman beside Meggie. Finch
could hear them discussing means of transportation to Florida and
whether or not, in the event of his going, Wake should take his fishing
tackle. Ernest was on the sofa beside Alayne. They were apparently
discussing him. They smiled at him and Ernest said--"Splendid, Finch!
I've never heard you play so well!" Alayne said nothing, but there was a
glowing look in her eyes that meant more than words.

Rags brought in the tea. There was a fruit cake which Finch particularly
liked and small cakes filled with custard and covered with cocoanut
icing. He was ravenous. Alayne asked Meg to pour the tea.

She said--"Run and find Renny, Wake, please! I do hope he has not gone to
the stables." She wondered if he had been very angry when he had left
the room. His expression had been gloomy, and no wonder, after so much
combined criticism. She herself felt tired out. There had been a time
when she would not have been able to eat a morsel after such a wrangle,
but now she found herself eagerly devouring bread and jam like the rest
of them. A lock of fair hair had loosened and hung into her eyes. She
looked pale and wan.

Meg began talking to her in the most friendly way, asking her advice
about clothes for the South. She waited impatiently for Wakefield's
return.

He came running in and instantly snatched up a piece of bread. "I can't
find him anywhere," he said, with his mouth full. "I've been up to his
room and down to the kitchen. Wright had just come in and he said Renny
wasn't at the stable. His hat is hanging on the rack and his dogs are
lying in the hall."

"I should think he would hide his head," observed his sister. "I think
he has taken Aunt Augusta's letter very much to heart. He realises, too,
that we all blame him in this matter."

"He'd be deaf as a post if he didn't," said Piers.

"He has found," said Ernest, "that such high-handedness only reacts
against himself."

Nicholas growled. "Renny has inherited all the worst traits of the
Courts and the Whiteoaks combined."

"And yet," cried Meg, "I have heard him boast that he had inherited the
best from each family. What was that he said to us, Maurice, just the
other day?"

"He said--'From my English forebears, I got my love of horses. From my
Irish, the instinct for selling horses. And from my Scotch my horse
sense'."

"That was it!" cried Meg delightedly. "Did you ever hear of such
conceit?"

Piers said--"I'd forgotten that Renny's mother was Scotch."

"She was Scotch," affirmed Meg. "And of an excellent family. Very
different from----" She did not finish the sentence.

"Just the same," said Piers, "I think the poor old chap should have his
tea. I'll have a look for him myself."

"Oh, I wish you would!" breathed Alayne.

Piers left the room and before long returned with a puzzled expression
on his candid face.

"He's gone to bed."

"To bed!" they echoed, in one voice.

"But I was in his room," said Wakefield. "He wasn't in bed then."

Piers answered--"He's not in his own bed."

Once more the family turned and looked at Alayne. She felt her face
tingling with the blood that had rushed to it. Like Ernest, earlier in
the afternoon, she could utter no sound, only make grimaces.

Ernest laid his hand on hers. "Never mind, dear girl," he said
soothingly. "It's only natural."

Finch gave a loud guffaw, and his eyes sought those of Piers, which
beamed back full of laughter.

Piers said--"He's not where you think he is. He's in Gran's bed. The old
painted bed he inherited from her."

Food which was being masticated lay undisturbed in the mouths of the
Whiteoaks or was hastily bolted. It was as though old Adeline herself
had walked into their midst, her velvet tea-gown trailing, her cap with
the purple ribbons set for their subjection, her rings which had been
divided among them, again flashing on her long fingers. "Renny in my
bed? Well, why not? I left it to him! I bore his father there. Renny is
bone of my bone.... Let him rest his red head on my pillow and cool his
hot temper in my bed. It's his own place."

Nicholas got himself with difficulty out of his chair. He hobbled
towards the door and, after a moment's wavering, all the others rose and
followed him. They went down the hall where the late sunlight, diffused
through the stained glass window, cast bright splotches of colour upon
them. Wragge had built a great fire in the stove. Its sides were red and
the smell of overheated pipes made the air heavy.

Nicholas opens the door of his mother's room and looks in. There,
propped on two pillows, lies the master of Jalna. His eyes closed, his
thin muscular hands clasped on the coverlet, he appears to be lying in
state. Boney, on his perch by the head of the bed, his plumage less
bright than the plumage of the painted birds on the headboard, lifts his
wings in a rage at the intrusion. He is moulting and, with the flapping
of his wings, bright feathers are thrown from him and drift on to the
bed.

"Shaitan! Shaitan Kabatka! Iflatoon! Chore! Chore!" He pours forth a
volley of horrible Hindoo oaths. All the curses that have lain simmering
in his drowsy brain, without utterance for the past three years, now
come hurtling through his beak. His eyes revolve like the lamps in a
lighthouse. At one moment he turns them full of ire on the family
collected about the bed. At the next they beam, full of possessive
affection, on the occupant of the bed.

"Is he ill, do you think?" whispers Ernest.

"I don't like it at all. He has gone too far," growls Nicholas.

"To think that Boney should talk again--after all these years!" says Meg.
She goes to the bed and lays her hand on her brother's forehead. "Speak,
Renny. Are you ill? Or is it just that your feelings are hurt?"

Oh, their glorious lack of self-consciousness! thinks Alayne. Oh, that I
could so grandly let myself go! That I could be so magnificently a fool!

"Bring Wakefield! He will notice the child," says Meg.

Piers, his teeth gleaming, pushes the boy forward.

Wakefield has been sadly overwrought. He bursts into tears and wrings
his slender hands. "Renny, you're not dying, are you?"

Renny opens his eyes. They look black in the dim light.

"Somebody ..."

Nicholas interrupts him. "You are not to say that! That's carrying
things too far!"

"Somebody fetch me a cup of tea."

"Go and fetch him tea, Piers!" cries Meg. "Oh, Renny dear, whatever is
the matter?"

He turns and hides his face in the crook of his arm. "Everyone is
against me ... no one has ever understood me but Gran...."




                                  XXX


                            WHAT OF PAULINE?

Was he hers, Alayne questioned, or did he belong to the family? She had
been ashamed for him. She had felt chagrin that he had so played up to
the family's attitude toward him. Yet she felt a certain elation, for,
without doubt, she had solidified her own position in that flamboyant
circle.

The next day was Sunday and they had all gone to church. No disruption
could prevent their going to church. Sometimes she thought that they had
the unquestioning faith of the children's crusade, as they braved all
kinds of weather, and sometimes she thought of them as pagans with a
savage tenacity for the rites handed down to them by tradition. Once,
just to test them on the subject, she had read aloud an illuminating
chapter from a book by an eminent scientist on religion. The only one
who had shown any interest in it had been Pheasant, and the opinion she
had offered had been that the writer was talking about things he did not
understand.

Alayne sat in the Whiteoaks' pew, her feet on the hassock on which for
so many years old Adeline's large shapely feet had rested. On her left
sat Piers and Finch, on her right Nicholas, Ernest, and Wake. Across the
aisle, in the Vaughan pew, sat Meg, Maurice, and Patience. The little
girl peeped between her fingers across at her uncles. Wake shut one eye
and glared at her with the other. She giggled and was reprimanded in a
stage whisper by her mother. Meg was looking handsome, with black fur
about her neck. Maurice's face wore the expression of callous reverence
attained by forty years of church-going. He had begun when he was four.
The backbone of the responses and the hymns was supplied by these two
pews. They never failed or faltered. Their fervour was not controlled by
any graduations of volume suggested by the letters _p_ or _dim_ at the
beginning of hymn lines.

Renny had been the lay reader since his return from the war. Now he
mounted the steps behind the brass eagle that was a memorial to Captain
Philip Whiteoak. Alayne had a glimpse of his thick-soled boots beneath
his surplice. She thought of him as he had lain in his grandmother's
bed, from which he had only risen to come to church that morning. Would
he return to it that night? Or would he, perhaps, just take to it when
things upset him? No one could tell and no one had dared question him.
By his act he had re-established himself as chieftain of the clan. His
grandmother's mantle hung about him. Because of it Boney had found his
voice and had since raised it repeatedly, dragging from the feathered
limbo of his brain every Hindoo word taught him by old Adeline in the
thirty years of his life in her company.

Renny read the lessons in a loud voice with a modicum of respect for
punctuation. But when he said--"Here endeth the Lesson--" he did so in an
abrupt, hurried mumble. The family did not take their eyes off him.
Patience covered hers with her fingers and peeped at him. When he had
finished he returned to his seat and sat with bent head, his handsome
nose outlined against dark oak carvings.

Piers and an old man with a beard took up the collection. Piers stood,
stalwart and impassive, at the end of the pew while his family fished
for their contributions. He and the old man marched up the aisle
together and stood at the chancel steps facing Mr. Fennel, the old man's
bald head and bent back, Piers's blonde head and flat back toward the
congregation.

It was Finch's first Sunday at home. He thought of all that had happened
to him since he last sat in that seat, and it seemed unbelievable. His
brothers had jeered at him for sticking in one spot while away, but he
wondered whether, if he had toured the whole of Europe, he could have
had deeper and more varied experience. He had left a part of himself,
that could never be regained, in Nymet Crews. He had brought away
something within himself that would not die. The mood of hope and
purpose that had risen in him the day before had not failed. He still
felt that he would do great things with his life.

He left the church with Renny and Wakefield in the old car.

"I'm driving round by the fox farm," observed Renny. "I must see Mrs.
Lebraux for a moment on business."

The roads were deep with snow. Finch remembered how spring had been
coming in Devon even when he had left. How delicately, with what shy
misgivings spring would come there! She would push one white foot, the
toes as white as snowdrops, from under the coverlet of winter. She would
let loose her hair, in a coil of golden daffodils, across its darkness.
She would open her violet eyes, expose one bare shoulder. But these
movements would be tentative. She would withdraw and weep softly to
herself.... And though spring still slept profoundly here, how she would
leap up when, at last, she was roused! She would bound from under her
coverings stark naked, her breast thrust forward to meet the sun's kiss.
She would be brown as a berry almost before her whiteness had been
acclaimed....

As the car stopped before the fox farm Wakefield asked--"Are you going to
let me go to Florida, Renny?"

Renny gave him a rough caress in passing. "You will stay with me," he
said.

When he had gone Wake threw himself back in the car exclaiming--"I might
have known! It was too good to be true! Yet--I shall always look on you
as my benefactor, Finch, even though I don't go!"

"Don't be a young ass," admonished Finch. He added: "Tell me about Mrs.
Lebraux and Pauline. How have they been getting on?"

"Not very well. You see, they have no man about the place."

"I can't see what good Lebraux was to them."

"Well, he made them a widow and an orphan. Women cannot be even those
without a man having been about."

Finch laughed and looked curiously at his young brother. He noticed his
growing length of limb, the new curves of mouth and nostril. Whom was he
going to be like? There was something of Eden about the lips, something
of Gran in the eyes. A strange combination. One for poetry, passion, and
pride.

"Finch, will you be my friend?"

"Of course, I will."

"Will you shake hands on it?"

"Rather."

Finch grasped the slender hand in his and they smiled into each other's
eyes.

"Do you often see Pauline?" Finch asked.

"Scarcely ever. I brought a poem I had written to read to her. It was in
the autumn. But she was playing with her pet fox and I changed my
mind.... I'll read it to you, if you like, Finch."

"I didn't know you wrote poetry."

"I have been writing it for almost a year. I sent this one to Eden. And
what do you suppose he wrote back to me? He wrote--'You are not _going_
to be a poet. You _are_ one!'"

"Don't believe everything Eden says."

"Wait till you hear the poem! Now that you're going to be my friend,
I'll read it to you. I have read it to Renny."

"What did he say?"

"He said it was good," said Wake, triumphantly.

"I think you should read the poem to Pauline. I might be there too. I
should like that."

"Should you? I will, then. Here she comes! She has been to Mass."

They saw Pauline Lebraux approaching along the empty white road. Her
movements were uneven as she walked over the deep ruts in the snow. The
sun had the warmth of approaching spring in it and the snow was becoming
soft and wet. As she drew near Finch saw that she still wore no touch of
colour, but that her face, under the black beret, was flushed delicately
pink by the exertion. She wore goloshes, above which her black
stockinged legs showed long and thin.

He opened the door of the car and sprang out, but, when he was face to
face with her, he did not know what to say. He just stood smiling
inanely, noticing the worn little prayer-book and rosary she held in her
hand.

Wakefield was out beside him. He said, in the patronising tone Finch
found so irritating:

"Pauline, do you remember my brother Finch?"

She smiled and gave Finch her hand. Again he saw that shadow of pain in
her smile. It was purely physical--the sensitive curling of the lip--but
it moved him to a strange compassion toward her. In spite of the
hardships which he knew she must undergo in her life, he thought of it
as an idyllic one. He thought of her as a young wilding, untouched by
common things.

"I am glad you are back," she said.

Did she really mean that or was it just politeness?

Wakefield said--"Pauline, I am going to read my poetry to you and Finch.
Shall you like that?"

"Oh, yes! I shall love to hear it. Is Mr. Whiteoak in the house?"

Wakefield answered--"I think I see him by the fox pens with your mother."

"Won't you come and see our foxes?" she asked Finch.

She led the way, and, as the boys followed her, Wakefield whispered--"Her
education is being neglected. She knows almost nothing--except French.
Renny tried to make Alayne read French with her but Alayne refused. We
had a terrible time."

"I feel very sorry for her. Think of her walking almost four miles to
Mass! I think we ought to send a car for her."

"I might go with her. I think it would suit me very well to be a
Catholic."

They found Mrs. Lebraux and Renny standing in deep snow by the
enclosures. She wore a heavy jersey that had been her husband's,
breeches tucked into grey woollen stockings and moccasins. She stood
leaning on a snow shovel and smoking a cigarette. She was bare-headed,
and her hair, with its unusual shadings of brown and tow-colour, stood
out about her face in short, thick locks. Finch's eyes moved from mother
to daughter. He was disturbed by the sharp contrast between them.

Renny put his arm about Pauline and drew her to his side. "Are you
feeling better?" he asked. "Have you got over the tragedy?"

Mrs. Lebraux explained to Finch--"Pauline has been inconsolable. One of
the vixens got out of her own pen into the next one and the foxes there
attacked her. They tore off a leg and she had to be killed."

"It was not the pet fox, I hope."

"No, but one of her favourites. She is far too tender-hearted. Life is
going to be hard for her."

Finch felt angry with Mrs. Lebraux. Why should she be dressed as a man,
shovelling snow, sending her child to church alone? Yet, though he felt
angry, he could not help liking her.

The snow in the pens was indented by many little footprints, but most of
the foxes had hidden themselves in their kennels at the approach of
strangers. However, the old dog-fox stood at a distance surveying them,
his clear-cut shadow bluish on the snow. Pauline had run into an
outhouse to bring fox biscuits to tempt them from their dens. She had
put her prayer-book and rosary into Finch's hand to hold for her. Clara
Lebraux glanced at them, then into his eyes, and said--"Poor child!"

What did she mean by that, he wondered. There was something mysterious
about her. He felt a troubling, exquisite intimacy in holding these
things belonging to Pauline.

She came back running, and threw biscuits into one pen after another.
The foxes, surprised at being fed at this unusual hour, crept out
timorously, snatched the biscuits, and fled with them to their kennels.
But her pet fox ran to her, bounding about her like a dog. She went into
the run and brought him out in her arms, displaying him proudly to Finch
and Wakefield. Her face showed lively above his long fur that was
electric with health and the keen air.

On the way home Finch said--"Wake tells me that they are having rather a
hard time of it."

Renny sent the car over a drift that almost threw the boys from their
seats. "Yes. Things are rough for them. But they will make a success of
it yet. Clara Lebraux is one woman in a thousand, and that little
Pauline is wonderful with the foxes. She has a stove in the outhouse.
Cooks meat for them. Makes all their mashes herself. The worst is that
they must sell some of their best stock this spring just for lack of
capital."

Finch asked hesitatingly--"How much would it take to tide them over."

"A few thousand would do wonders for them. Practically save the
situation." Finch was sitting in the front seat with him, and Renny had
lowered his voice so that Wakefield might not hear. "I let them have a
thousand myself--last year. But this spring--I simply hadn't got it.
They'll have to get along as best they can." He sighed.

"I'd love to help them--if you think they wouldn't mind," said Finch in a
low tone.

Renny shot him a quick, grateful look. "Oh, would you? That would be
splendid. There would be no risk, but she could not pay a high
interest."

As they turned into the drive he muttered--"Don't say anything of this to
the family. They are down on Mrs. Lebraux."

Finch walked on air. He was hand in glove with Renny. Between them they
were going to look after Pauline....

What of Pauline? He could not put the thought of her out of his head.
That sweet face, delicately flushed by the long walk through the snow,
was between him and all he saw. A bright stream flowed between Jalna and
the fox farm. Along it his spirit moved in exaltation, like a ship with
all sails spread in full moonlight. That other face, pale, remote, with
its close-set mouth, was as a distant promontory veiled by clouds.




                                  XXXI


                           BIRTHDAY GREETINGS

Pheasant had her mind set on one thing. That was that her baby should be
born on Finch's birthday.

In the first place it would be a remarkable coincidence. A double
birthday in the family would be an event of great importance. In the
second place she thought the date a lucky one. Finch was talented, and
he had inherited a fortune. In the third place, if the baby were born on
Finch's birthday, Finch would, in all probability, take a keen interest
in it, feel a personal pride in its advancement.

Now, here it was five o'clock in the afternoon on the first day of March
and no baby! The doctor had been to see her and was coming back in a few
hours. Her time was drawing near. Yet so was midnight and the second day
of March. She had had a cup of tea, but she could not eat anything. She
sat by the window in her dressing-gown, her face flushed, her eyes
feverish, her short brown hair in damp tags on her forehead. Piers was
walking about the room. He fidgeted with things on the dressing-table,
played with the tassel on the blind. He had a reassuring smile ready for
her when their eyes met, but when he looked at her unobserved his face
wore an expression of acute anxiety.

Above the tree-tops, in the translucent green sky, he saw the pale curve
of the new moon. He said:

"There's the new moon, little one! It's a good omen!"

"Oh, oh," she said. "I must wish on it! But don't let me see it through
glass! Open the window."

He opened it and the cold air came in on her. There had been a fresh
fall of snow. Every twig bore its fragile burden of whiteness. She
placed herself sideways in the window. "I must see it over my right
shoulder!" He took her head in his hands and turned it so that she faced
the new moon across her shoulder. He pressed his fingers against her
head, and a well of tenderness rising in him constricted his throat,
blinded his eyes with tears. She opened hers.

"Now," he urged, "wish quickly! I must not let you take cold."

She fixed her eyes on the moon that looked no more than the paring from
a silver apple, and murmured to herself--"Oh, let it come soon ... before
midnight, please, moon!"

Piers put down the sash.

"There," she sighed. "Perhaps that will help! But I don't feel as much
like it as I did two hours ago."

"I wish you hadn't set your mind on such an idiotic thing," he said.
But, in spite of himself, he was influenced by her. Then, there was the
anxiety to have it all over. He counted the hours till midnight. "Try to
eat something, to please me!" He brought a plate on which was a thin
piece of bread and butter. He cut it into small bits and fed them to
her. She held up her mouth like a young bird for the morsels. As he put
the bits of bread into her mouth and saw the confiding look in her eyes
he thought--"I didn't feel like this when Mooey was born.... She must be
going to die."

They could hear Mooey and Patience laughing and running in the passage.
She had been brought to spend the day with him.

"Do those kids annoy you?" asked Piers. "Where the dickens is that Alma
Patch? She ought to be minding them."

"Bring them in here for a moment. I'd love to see them."

He opened the door of the bedroom and the two came running in side by
side with the air of having intended to do this particular thing at this
particular moment. They had been having their tea in the kitchen. They
wore their bibs, on which were buttery crumbs of toast. Patience carried
a toasting fork.

"I made toas'," she cried. "I made my own toas'. And Mooey's."

Mooey went to his mother and stood gravely by her knee. She laid her
fingers among the soft rings of his hair. "Darling, would you like a
baby sister?"

"Yes." He spoke emphatically, softly thumping on her knee with his shut
fist. "She could fall downstairs."

"Oh, but she wouldn't! You'd take care of her, wouldn't you?"

"Yes. I'd pick her up and put her in a bastick."

"Patty, would you like a baby cousin, this very night?"

Patience made her eyes enormous. "Oh, the darling! I'll wide her on my
pony!" She looked about the room. "Where is she? Patty wants to see
her!"

Pheasant said--"Open the window, Piers, and let the children wish on the
new moon."

"Don't be silly!" He patted her back. "It will only let in the cold and
it will do no good--if that's what you're thinking of."

"One can never tell.... Why, I've heard tell how, in the war, Kitchener
or some other great general said--when he heard a battle had been
won--'Somebody must have been praying!' Just think of that! A great
general and a battle! And this just the matter of a different birthday
for my baby! Surely it might help!"

To please her he opened the window. She turned the two little faces up
toward the moon. "Now say after me--' I wish that the new baby may come
before to-morrow....'" Obediently they lisped the words after her.

"I don't see anything religious in that," observed Piers. "It's purely
pagan."

"I am tolerant," she said sagely, "of all religions."

"Not only tolerant. You believe in them all."

Patience stabbed her toasting fork in the direction of the moon. "Patty
wants the moon!" she cried. "Come down, moon, and be toasted!"

"I'm not f'ightened," said Mooey.

Piers shut the window. Already the lower point of the moon had touched
the treetops. She was fast sinking. Pheasant looked at Piers with a
strange stare in her eyes. Then she uttered a cry.

"Take them away! Oh, take them away from here!"

Piers caught a child in each hand and hurried them from the room.

But, five hours later, when he and his brothers and uncles were waiting
below, the birth had not taken place. Pheasant had asked for an egg and
was eating it....

Finch stood by the window looking into the starless night while the
others played a half-hearted game of bridge. How could Piers play cards
when his girl lay in dreadful anticipation in a room above! He pictured
himself in Piers's position. He pictured a girl whose tender flesh was
soon to be torn to produce his flesh conceived in a moment of
uncalculating passion.... He should not be able to endure it. His spirit
would bear every pang.... He shrank from the thought that any woman
should go through that because of him.... No, let him go childless to
his grave rather than that.... Even though it were possible to bring his
child into the world without pain, better far that no child should
inherit the torment of his nerves. Had he ever been really happy? He
could not remember it, even in childhood. There had always been that
haunting of fear, that moving shadow of the unknown.

He could discover just one pale star. The soul perhaps of this new
Whiteoak waiting to descend, when the moment came, into the troubled
body.

Nicholas was dealing and he said:

"I remember well twenty-two years ago to-night. We sat at this very
table playing cribbage--Ernest and I--your father walking the floor. We
were waiting for young Finch to arrive. And he was tardy enough about
it."

"Philip was very nervous," said Ernest. "I remember that when we gave
him a glass of rum and water, to quiet him, the glass rattled in a quite
alarming manner against his teeth.... Poor Mary was suffering greatly."

Piers held his hand above the table. "Look at that. Steady enough, eh?"

"Yes," agreed Ernest, "but all is not over upstairs."

"Pheasant will be all right," said Renny. "The doctor is with her. And
Mrs. Patch. Meg and Alayne in the next room."

Piers was examining his cards. "Alayne ought to be having this baby.
It's her turn," he muttered.

"We don't all of us have families," replied Renny. "I've responsibility
enough as it is."

They played out the hand.

Piers looked at his watch. Half past ten.

"A year ago to-night," observed Ernest, as he dealt, "we were in the
midst of your birthday party, Finch."

Finch turned from the window. "It was a very different birthday from
this. It seems years ago."

"You made a good speech that night," said Renny. "You had everybody
laughing."

Finch looked pleased. "I forget what I said. It was awful rot, I guess."

"No. It was very good. By the way, I met Mrs. Leigh and Ada in town
to-day. They're expecting Leigh and his wife next month. But you didn't
like her, did you?"

"No, I didn't like her." He turned again to the window.

"Play!" said Nicholas. His tone was testy because of the delay.

Why had that name been spoken to-night? Why had that pale face, with its
indrawn mouth, been introduced into his thoughts? It was there, outside
the pane, looking in at him mocking, beseeching, by turn. It was of the
figment of night. Of pale starlight. Of shadow darker than darkness. And
from it issued that voice which would always trouble his soul, that
voice sweeter than the sweetness of her violin.

From above came a piercing cry. Piers threw down his cards and ran up
the stairs.

At twenty minutes to twelve the new Whiteoak came weeping into the
world. Meg brought the news down to them.

She put her arms about Piers and kissed him. "A little son, Piers! Quite
strong and well.... And on your birthday, Finch!" She kissed him, too.
"Many happy returns to you both, darling boys!"

Piers said--"He did it, by the skin of his gums!"

"Did what?"

"Arrived on Finch's birthday. Pheasant had her heart set on that." His
face was contorted. He was between laughter and tears.

Nicholas hobbled up and down the room. "Well, well, this is good news!
Another boy, eh? And on your birthday, Finch! A new Whiteoak. I remember
how a year ago to-night we sat up till dawn in this room
celebrating...." And he began singing in an undertone,

    "Zummer is icumen in.
    Sweetly sings cuckoo!"

Piers's head was hidden in the long maroon window curtain. His shoulders
were shaken by sobs.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The next day was Sunday. Just as breakfast was over, Wright brought a
package addressed to Finch which he had got from the post office the
night before. Wakefield carried it, with an important air, to Finch.
"Wright is awfully sorry, Finch, that he forgot this last night.
Whatever do you suppose it is?"

He stood by expectantly while Finch undid it. It was a book, fresh from
the press. Poetry by the look of it. Wake read the title--"_New France_,
by Eden Whiteoak." He wanted to take it in his hands, but Finch held him
off. "No--let me see it first...."

He took off the jacket. The cover was green with gold lettering, and
there was a design of lilies. How well Eden's name looked in the gilt
letters. How jolly nice of him to have sent him this for his birthday!
Finch had not known it was published yet. He raised the cover and looked
inside. On the dedication page, he read--"For brother Finch."

Wakefield read it, too. They looked at each other, stunned by the
magnificence of it. Eden had dedicated his new long poem, which had
taken him a year to write, to Finch! He was overcome. What had he done
to deserve being singled out for such an honour. Eden.... _New
France_.... For brother Finch. God, life was terrific!

He carried it to the dining-room to show it to his uncles and Renny, who
were still at the breakfast-table. They were duly impressed. Rags, with
a tray in his hands, bent his inquisitive gaze upon it.

"I'm sure we're all proud of both you and Mr. Eden, sir," he said.
"You've both of you turned out better than we could 'ave 'oped."

Wakefield had rushed back to the sitting-room at the sound of a
plaintive cry there. Now he hastened back to the dining-room,
exclaiming:

"Come quick, Piers has something to show you!"

Nicholas made his table napkin into a ball. Renny heaved him to his
feet. Nip, who had been on his knee, circled about the table yapping
joyously. One of Renny's spaniels reared itself beside the table and
licked the toast crumbs from his plate. Ernest surreptitiously took an
indigestion tablet. All these excitements tended to discourage the
gastric juices....

In the wintry sunlight Piers was holding something on a pillow. In his
eyes was pride and on his lips a deprecating tenderness.

They gathered about the newcomer, staring at him ruthlessly, while his
weak eyes shrank from the light and he made a shamefaced grimace as
though he would ask nothing better than the opportunity to obliterate
himself. Young as he was, he had been put into clothes. Bands, napkins,
safety-pins, hampered him. His tender arms had been thrust into sleeves
by Mrs. Patch. He had been washed, the faint down on his head had been
brushed. His nose had been wiped. He was ready for life.

Renny caught sight of Mooey in the hall. From a disorganised household
the tiny boy had escaped to the coal-cellar and was smudged from head to
foot. With a stride Renny was on him. He snatched him up and carried him
to join the circle.

"Mooey, you sweep!" he shouted. "Mooey, you miserable tripe, come and
see your baby brother!"

Mooey, with a sooty forefinger in his pink mouth, stared long and
dubiously at the newcomer. Then--"Oh hell, I'm not f'ightened!" he said.

His uncles and great uncles agreed that, while not handsome, the infant
showed unmistakable signs of having the Court nose.

Piers fixed his prominent blue eyes on Finch's face. He had got an idea.
"Why, look here," he said. "This kid's got a long nose, a long,
melancholy face, he's a depressed-looking cuss! By George, we'll call
him Finch!"

"Not after me?" cried Finch, incredulously.

"Yes, why not? Pheasant was awfully keen to have him born on your
birthday. Thought he might shine in your reflected rays. I believe he's
going to take after you. I'd like damned well to call him Finch--if you
don't mind!"

"Good idea!" said Nicholas.

"Splendid!" said Ernest.

"He might do worse than take after his Uncle Finch," said Renny.

"Do you mind?" reiterated Piers.

"Mind!" Finch was touched to the heart. His features broke into a tender
smile. He took the tiny pink hand in his large bony one. "Mind! Why,
it's the most beautiful thing I've ever had done for me in all my life!"
His voice trembled with emotion.

   _Printed in Great Britain by_ R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, _Edinburgh_.




Transcriber's Notes

A publisher's logo of uncertain copyright status has not been used.

p85 cetain replaced with certain
she required cetain/certain luxuries,

p205 - replaced with --
to match occurrence on p200
"wh--what's the matter?"

p209 surpised replaced with surprised
Finch was surpised/surprised to see him at work at this hour,

missing " added at end of paragraph p 281.
confusing him and his grandmother in my mind...."

p388 And from my Scotch my horse sense'."
' added to match start of quote

With the exception of the above all other spelling inconsistencies in
the book have been retained.






[End of Finch's Fortune, by Mazo de la Roche]
