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 blond 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’11 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 here 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 k
illed.”
“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 dogfox 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 prayerbook 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 treetops, 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... More 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 tomorrow...’” 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.
The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche Page 290