Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Read online

  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 tonight.”

  “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 Laceys 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 tonight. 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 hen”

  “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 tonight, 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. It
s 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 afterdinner 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.”